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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28624131">London Calling</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanFicFoxx/pseuds/FanFicFoxx'>FanFicFoxx</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Crimson Peak (2015), Loki: Agent of Asgard, The Night Manager (TV), Thor (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU Tom Hiddleston - Freeform, Airports, Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Drama &amp; Romance, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, F/M, Hotels, London, Romance, Romance Novel, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Tom Hiddleston, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smut, Tall men, Tom Hiddleston In A Suit, Travel, hiddlestoners - Freeform, night manager - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:34:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>61,162</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28624131</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanFicFoxx/pseuds/FanFicFoxx</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tessa Taylor's travel plans are suddenly derailed by a surprise blizzard over the UK. But something steamer than snow is in the forecast when she's left stranded in London, an unfamiliar city, with an unfamiliar man. Thomas William Hiddleston is as handsome as he is moody, but in close quarters it seems he's no match for Tessa's American sensibilities and quick whit on their impromptu leave in London. Will it be just a layover? Or an extended stay? Tune in to find out!</p><p>(This is just a little TH story I've been working on for myself, and fellow #Hiddlestoners for a while now. I'll be adding a new chapter every week, or twice a week when I’m feeling frisky, so subscribe to follow along!)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Chris Hemsworth &amp; Loki (Marvel), Jonathan Pine/Original Female Character(s), Jonathan Pine/Thor (Marvel), Loki (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s), Tom Hiddleston/Loki/Original Female Character(s), Tom Hiddleston/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>97</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>108</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Aisle Seat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Holy hell!” I let out in a panic. Although I’d meant to keep my frustrations in my head, the startled glance from the older man in the window seat told me I hadn’t succeeded. I was talking to myself out loud.</p><p>I had just switched my phone off airplane mode as my flight from Geneva touched down at London’s Heathrow Airport. A rushing river of texts pinged through on my cell, all automated messages from the airline pushing back my next flight to a later departure. First seven o’clock, then eight-fifteen, and so on, until the last came through with the worst message imaginable:</p><p>See Gate Agent.</p><p>“Sorry.” I smiled weakly in the man's direction. I'd guessed he was in his seventies and he’d been transfixed to what looked like <em>Murder She Wrote</em> reruns for the duration of the three-hour flight. We’d mumbled pleasantries as I’d stood to let him out of his seat or passed his pretzel trash to the flight attendant, but actual sentences hadn’t been exchanged between us until now.</p><p>“I just found out my flight home might be canceled. They’re telling me to see a gate agent which is never a good sign.”</p><p>“Oh aye, lass,” he answered in a thick Irish brogue. The accent caught me off guard since I'd made the assumption early on that he was Swiss. Although the more I looked at him now, the more Irish he became. His scratchy tweed coat was a dark hunter’s green like his flat-billed cap. His eyes came close to matching the hat and coat in shade. They looked like glossy emeralds set beneath the silvery white of his bushy brows and as he went on, “They’re sayin’ all the flights out of Heathrow and Gatwick are to be postponed. Supposed to have snow the rest of the night and into the mornin’. Did ya not hear the stewardess? A <em>greallach shneachta</em> over the UK, it is.”</p><p>He turned away from me momentarily to push up his window screen, revealing a dusting of snow that glistened on the runway like sieved sugar on a crepe. It wasn’t much accumulation, but the steady fall of large crystalline flakes from mauvy clouds successfully blocked most of the light that tried to break through. It was difficult to tell what time it was, and for a split second, I wondered if it was actually four a.m. instead of four p.m.  </p><p>“No, I’m afraid I must have had my headphones on during that announcement. But it does look bad out there.”</p><p>“It is looking somethin’ terrible. Those weathermen didn’t believe the storm would hit, but it drove west last minute. I must tell my grandson to take his time gettin’ here, he’s to be fetchin’ me. He’s sure to be runnin’ behind because of this weather.”</p><p>“Well, that’s good you have someone to pick you up. I was supposed to have a two-hour layover before my six o’clock flight to Chicago. I hope they can get me on the first flight out tomorrow if mine really is canceled.”</p><p>“Ah, Chicago! You know, they call it the windy city,” he mused, as if I was unfamiliar with that little tidbit of trivia. “Is that where yer from?”</p><p>"Not originally, no. But I moved there for work a few years back."</p><p>“Why I’ve got some cousins that are livin’ near to you in Chicago.” He wrapped up the rest of an uneaten blueberry scone in a cocktail napkin before shoving it in his breast pocket. Crumbs fell out as he did, sticking to the old jacket like velcro, and I tried not to smirk.</p><p>“Do ya happen to know by chance any of the O’Leary folk in Long Grove? Patrick, or Evelyn, or maybe their son Pat or daughter Evie Rose? Evelyn's brother works for the US Postal Service. His name is Jacob...or Jack, I can't recall.”</p><p>“I’m afraid I haven’t met them yet…” Chicago and its suburbs probably had ten million or more people, but for some reason, I genuinely wished I had known these cousins for the sake of our conversation. </p><p> “I figured as much, but never hurts to ask. I’m often surprised by just how small the world can be. And what was a bonny girl like yerself doin’ in Geneva, if I might ask? You were a long way from home. Were you there on holiday?”</p><p>My work trip had been anything but a vacation, and the mention of the word holiday made my stomach twist with regretful annoyance. I hadn’t had time to gorge on gruyere in an A-frame chalet or sip white wine in one of the cozy stone bistros that lined the Old Town. No leisurely strolls to Lake Geneva or St. Pierre Cathedral either. Instead, I’d spent three and a half hellish days in fluorescent-lit conference rooms staring at PowerPoint presentations in french and touring an outdated factory floor. The crick in my neck reminded me of the hours spent huddled over my laptop.    </p><p>“I wish,” I raised my hand to the back of my neck in an involuntary attempt to ease the kink. “It definitely wasn’t a holiday. I was there for work. I’m a…” My voice trailed off. My job title usually elicited blank stares or feigned interest. With the average stranger, I’d veer towards the vaguest answer possible and I’d tell them I did interior design work, which wasn’t entirely a lie. But for whatever reason, this sweet old man seemed the friendly sort who wanted a conversation. And since Heathrow was a snowy labyrinth, it would probably be a good ten minutes before we got to our gate and I had the time to kill.</p><p>“I design fabrics. Mostly for interiors. The firm I work for just bought a textile mill outside of Geneva. We’re starting up a European presence, and really trying to infiltrate that market. So this was a trip to see the site and strategize on some new machinery we are implementing for large bulk work.” I wrapped my headphones around my iPad, shoving them in my oversized bag before I went on.</p><p>“Sorry, I’m probably getting too technical. Large bulk work is the thick fabric for drapery panels or big upholstery projects. You know when you’re at a hotel and it has the really heavy drapes with the little scrawny plastic sticks that you have to pull together to close? That’s the kind of fabric I design.”</p><p>“So you come up with the patterns and the threads and the colors to use?”</p><p>“Yes, that’s exactly what I do,” I said with a confident nod. He was the first person in a long time that seemed interested in my work. </p><p>“Well fancy that, you’re a weaver. You know my mam, God rest her soul, was a weaver as well. Made the finest scarves and shawls in the county. She did beautiful, intricate work. She’d dye all the yarn herself usin’ the old methods. None of that new factory-made color that was comin’ out in the fifties and sixties. No, she’d still have me and my brothers go out into the wilds for the Devil's Bit for makin’ blues and the Flowering Rush for greens. And I won’t tell ya what she’d sometimes use as mordant. Now, that would really turn your nose up!”   </p><p>I laughed, remembering back on a class I’d taken in undergrad that had explained exactly what that process entailed. Something acidic was needed, and for thousands of years the most readily available source was a weaver’s own pee.</p><p>The plane had lurched to a stop, and after a minute a loud ding signaled it was time to unbuckle. I did just that, pulling up my purse over my shoulder and standing halfway in the aisle and halfway in my seat. At 5’4 in heels, even I had to slightly bend to keep my head clear of the bulging overhead bin.</p><p>“Excuse me, Mam,” a voice behind me said coldly, with an accent as polished as sterling silver. It was one of those perfect British accents that seemed as cultured as it was smug, and it was a little too close to my ear for comfort. It sounded like he was on top of me and I questioned where exactly he could be excusing himself to. If he intended to squeeze behind or to cut in front of the rest of the cabin, he had another thing coming. I yanked my rolling bag back down from the bin, propping it against my boot with a forceful slam. It was now situated smack in the center of the aisle, effectively blocking his path and anyone else's for that matter.  </p><p>“Mam, If I may,” he spoke again, this time a rasp I hadn’t detected earlier flowed through his inflection. And <em>Mam</em> – that word dug in like a barb. Mam was what you called an elderly lunch lady or some granny with blue hair and a bingo card. Although I was dangerously close to my thirty-fifth birthday, I was still a good twenty years from being anyone’s Mam, and I whirled around to tell him as much.</p><p>I tossed my hair, a tangled mess from the flight, over my shoulder and looked up as I did. But to my surprise, he wasn’t as much a man as he was a giant. The cabin of the A320 wasn’t particularly roomy, but most men on the flight didn’t have to dip their necks in the center of the aisle as this man did. He was tall – well over six feet, possibly six and a half, and stood hunching over me with just a few inches separating my back from his chest. I had to crane my neck up to get a look at him. And even then, all I could see was a sharp jaw that was cleanly shaven. I wondered if he’d whipped out a straight razor as we landed. A crop of black hair was slicked back, in contrast to an expensive cashmere coat. </p><p>I mustered up as much force as I could before I spoke, “No, you may not. You’ve got to wait your turn just like everyone else.”</p><p>“Mam, I believe my next flight has been canceled and I’ve got to get this sorted immediately. Step aside so I can pass,” He said flatly.</p><p>There were only several rows ahead of us. My boss had let me use some of her airmiles to upgrade to <em>Economy Preferred</em>, so I was a few rows behind first class. I wasn’t sure where he’d come from, but I hadn’t seen him on my earlier trip to the lavatory. I reasoned he must have been in the back of the plane and somehow pushed his way up the very front. I would have remembered seeing someone who looked as perfectly flawless he did. </p><p>In that moment, it was the principle of the thing that bothered me most. We were all facing canceled and delayed flights since a surprise snowstorm was brewing above us, yet he was the only one with the arrogance to try and weasel his way off first. And it usually worked for him, I figured. He looked like the kind of guy who’d never heard the word no. I gripped the handle of my rolling bag in annoyance, I felt my knuckles tightening white as I opened my mouth, prepared to give him not a piece, but the entire pie cooking up in my mind.</p><p>“First of all, I’m not your <em>Mam</em>. Second of all, you can’t just run up the aisle and get off before the people in front of you –…” the words proceeded, like some dam in my throat had broken free. I kept my voice as calm as possible, so as not to make a scene, but the frustration forced its way out on the last few sentences, “and if you’d wanted to get off first you should have paid to upgrade! That’s why they call it <em>first</em> class, so you can get off and on <em>first</em>!”  </p><p>Instead of retreating, he took a step towards me, closing the distance between us. His chest pushed into the back of my jacket, and the cologne he wore drifted to my nose, derailing my every thought. It wasn’t overpowering in the slightest, but the clean hints of juniper, citrus and something as distinctive as pepper consumed my racing thoughts. I was half tempted to lean in and shove my face in his charcoal coat to get a better whiff. He wasn’t a bulky man, he was lean in build, but somehow broad-chested and tapering down to a slim waist, and I watched his wide shoulders roll and straighten in defiance. </p><p>His neck tilted and fiery eyes caught mine squarely for the first time as he spoke, “I wasn’t requesting your permission. I was telling you to move.” That accent sliced through the air. Each syllable cut clean and clear. Instead of lifting his voice to match mine, he’d lowered it both in octave and in tone which amplified the harshness in his command. </p><p>His brow narrowed as he waited for me to obey, revealing fine lines that creased his forehead. His inky, slicked hair was pushed perfectly behind his ears in a style that stopped just below touching his shoulders and giving the appearance of a man in his thirties. But the lines told me he had to be somewhere past forty and he wasn’t as young as I’d initially assumed, he just had good skin. Black eyebrows framed those searing cobalt eyes. The hairs on my arms raised up to attention and my stomach shot to my throat as some strange mixture of adrenaline and fear burned through my core. I was all at once furious that some self-satisfied brit was ordering me around like a street urchin in a Dicken’s novel, but at the same time, something deep in my cerebellum screamed that I’d be stupid not to obey him. I was caught up in equal urges of fight and flight.</p><p>“I’m not moving,” was all I could mumble. Nervousness fluttered in my gut. I wasn’t a quarrelsome person. In fact, I was usually the one to smile and run whenever conflict came up. I’d joked for years at my firm when coworkers inevitably had skirmishes and watercooler feuds that I was as neutral as Switzerland. Never taking a side had become the side I took. But now, I’d shifted gears decidedly. I turned to survey the expressions of the travelers around me. All were paying full attention, although pretending they weren’t, and eyes darted restlessly between me and this incredibly handsome man I’d just had words with. Thankfully my Irish friend in the window seat coughed, breaking the tension that seized the air, and I fixed my gaze on the exit door as the first few rows of passengers began filing out. We were about to start moving, which would bring an end to this horrible interaction, but I felt some sense of pride for standing my ground, or more aptly standing my aisle. </p><p>“Lass, I believe I’ve got a walking stick somewhere, is it up above ya? 'Tis a light wood with a black handle.” My Irish seatmate asked as I scooted farther back, forcing the jerk behind me to bump into the woman behind him. I stood on my tiptoes, spotting the cane wedged lengthwise at the very back of the overhead bin. Although I was in heeled boots, it was just out of my grip as I struggled to grab it</p><p>“Allow me.” The guy behind said coldly, reaching with a long arm and grasping the cane without effort. He leaned past me between the seats, handing it directly to its owner.</p><p>“Ahh, many thanks. You’re height is appreciated indeed.”</p><p>To my absolute astonishment, instead of saying <em>you’re welcome</em> like a normal person, the jerk began prattling off in some language that sounded completely foreign yet familiar. Word’s flew, what I assumed were introductions happened, and I turned in surprise to the old man beside me to watch his eyes light up bright as Christmas. I realized it was Gaelic, and the two began chatting and laughing jovially. My mouth shot open, as I struggled to comprehend how someone who’d been so rude to me not a minute earlier could suddenly pivot on a dime, befriending this elderly Irishman in his native tongue. You’d have thought the two were lifelong friends as they chatted on, and I was finally broken free from their spell when the old man tapped me gently on the arm, signaling it was our time to move. </p><p>“Was nice chattin’ with you my dear,” He said with a smile, sliding out behind me and in front of the jerk. “And nice talkin’ with you as well, William. Rare to meet a British boy who speaks perfect Gaelic!”</p><p>“Oh, my pleasure indeed sir,” I heard this William say a little too loudly, as though he hoped he had my attention. “I <em>love</em> making new friends when I’m traveling.”</p><p>My eye roll was involuntary, and the troubled expression the flight attendants gave me signaled they thought it was directed at them. I veered hard left and stepped off the plane and on the jet bridge in a huff. Cold London air, like it had arrived from some sort of arctic tundra shot through the cracks between the walkway and the plane, carrying large frozen flakes of snow with it. I attempted to pull my coat closer as I made my way up the precipitous incline towards the terminal, and as I did, I felt the brush of an arm hit my shoulder. The frigid air, my disheveled coat, my too tall boots, and someone trying to pass me were too much, and all at once, I sensed myself beginning to fall off my left heel like it was happening in slow motion.</p><p>“Watch it!” Was all I was able to manage before a powerful hand gripped my arm above the elbow and partially broke my fall. My backside hit the chilly carpeting as I let go of my rolling luggage and my purse strap. My bag spilled open and sent Chapstick, a toothbrush, and worst of all, several tampons tumbling out. To make matters worse, the incline sent them all rolling backward down the walkway like racing matchbox cars. </p><p>“Are you all right?,” William murmured, setting straight his own hard-side bag before picking me up from the ground with both hands. I had some idea who’d pushed, and now caught me, and I scowled up at his smug perfect chin and cashmere coat with pure malice. </p><p>I flushed, feeling a blush of embarrassment course up through my pores. “So you’re shoving people down now? That’s not very...British of you!” was all I was able to get out. I whipped around, quickly grabbing the contents of my bag that I could easily reach. A few had rolled too far, and a younger kid in skinny jeans and a leather moto jacket sheepishly handed me my tampons and a lip gloss. I mumbled a weak thank you to him without making eye contact and realized this William person who’d caused all this was still holding my arm. </p><p>“I think you can let go now. You’ve done enough,” I said, shoving things frantically into my purse and grasping the handle of my bag to start forward again. </p><p>“I just want to be sure you’ve gotten your footing. It was an accident, I didn’t intend to-”</p><p>I started ahead, ignoring him and concentrating on every step as I kicked myself for throwing on such stupid boots to begin with. They were my “going out” shoes, which I hadn’t been able to wear once since I hadn’t done any going out whatsoever. For me to attempt to wear heels of any kind on a plane or in an airport was foolish. But my bag was too full for me to switch shoes now. I’d have to throw away all of my Swiss souvenirs to get them to fit.</p><p>“I really am sorry, Mam.” I heard him say from behind as I stepped out into the Terminal. </p><p><em> Mam </em>. He’d said it again. And with every fiber of my being I fought the urge to turn around and push him down the jetbridge.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Cancelations</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I hadn’t meant to bump into her. I swear on my life, that was the last thing I’d intended to do. The sassy American woman who’d lashed out at me had been moving up the jetway at a snail's pace. Even the elderly Irishman with a bloody <em> cane </em>had managed to outpace her by several meters, and I was merely attempting to pass the woman without further incident. I didn’t realize she had the coordination of a baby gazelle taking its first steps.</p><p>And when she stumbled backward, spilling out the contents of her handbag as she fell, I’d been forced to attempt to assist. I’d kept my mouth firmly shut even as she blamed <em>me</em> for her tumble. It had been obvious to anyone watching she would have fallen regardless, but the blush of embarrassment painted plainly on her cheeks kept me from vocalizing my suspicions aloud. </p><p>The girl looked - for lack of a better word - pitiful. Dark brown hair spilled over her puffy coat in a tangled mess. Makeup was smudged and smeared under her square-framed glasses. Not to mention those high heeled boots she had on were dreadful. And certainly not providing any traction up the steep include. Nevertheless, something in my stomach twisted as I observed her grasping cosmetics and...feminine items off the ground. Poor thing was all I could think. I shouldn’t have taken such a firm tone with her on the plane. She was a sheep among wolves in Heathrow International.</p><p>It was painfully obvious she wasn’t the sort of person who was accustomed to flying, or equipped for the stresses that travel can bring. I could only imagine what someone like her had been doing in Geneva of all places. It was a city I’d been to often, and her outfit and general demeanor would have raised eyebrows among the prim and priggish Swiss. Me on the other hand, well, traveling was all I did and I felt almost like some MI6 Agent when I landed in a new city, quickly blending in and mimicking the temperature of the locals. It was a taxing life, truth be told. Grueling really. Car to the airport at half-past six. A twelve-hour flight to some distant city. A whirlwind of meetings and functions lasting well after dark. Then back to whatever hotel I was at for a quick five hours. I’d begin the whole process again the following day as my alarm buzzed at five a.m. </p><p>Like any skill, it had taken time to grow accustomed and master the rigors of this lifestyle. But once I had, it was almost unthinkable to revert to anything else. I grew restless when I was at a place too long. Bored when I hadn’t migrated on to a new currency in my wallet. And I found my most tranquil moments were the minutes on takeoff or landing while I was forced to silence my phone. I’d shut my eyes, listening to the whirr of the turbines, feeling my stomach lurch up as we took off or touched down. I could now distinguish what plane I was on, whether it was an Airbus A380 or Boeing’s newest 787 from the sound of the jet engines alone.</p><p>My flight to Chicago was more than likely going to be canceled at some point, no way around that. I’d have to see about availability later in the week and rearrange my schedule accordingly. <em> One thing at a time </em>, I reasoned. I stepped off the jet bridge towards the International Connections sign, only pausing briefly to look out the floor to ceiling glass at an abysmal wasteland. The snow was cascading like a heavy curtain now, and it would be a matter of minutes before the slate black tarmac would turn entirely white. </p><p>I took a calculated turn to bypass the woman I’d royally angered. I wanted to give her as wide a berth as possible since she clearly needed it. If she noticed my maneuvering she didn’t let on. She gazed intently at her phone, probably trying to google “who do I show my passport to at Heathrow”, as she rearagened that enormous purse from one shoulder to another and headed to the signage for all non-UK citizens. </p><p>Good, she’s picked the correct direction, I thought as we parted ways. And no surprise, my queue took significantly longer than usual. Fifty minutes to be exact. Once my passport was fully vetted by a fat little man in a poorly tailored uniform and my bag was x rayed and liquids checked, I was unceremoniously dumped into T5A to locate the gate.</p><p>In this storm, Heathrow was more like an apocalyptic bomb shelter than a functioning airport. The weary and stranded were sleeping on every surface, stretched out against walls, windows, and glass partitions like they’d been wounded in battle. </p><p>Those who were fortunate enough to have seats were setting up for the long haul, with partly unzipped suitcases and half-eaten crisp packages strewn about them. Phone chargers were in short supply, and white cables stretched from outlets like razor tripwire, eager to catch the unsuspecting. </p><p>The queues, god. Those were something to behold. The queues at each gate extended far into the walkways and it was difficult to tell where one ended and another began. A frazzled mother in a colorful hijab chasing after a sucrose fueled toddler darted in my path, and I narrowly avoided knocking her down as I’d done to that girl from the plane. I glanced over my shoulder half expecting to make out that tangled mess of brown hair and a black puffed coat, but she was long gone. No telling where she was since we’d parted an hour before. I wished her luck. She would need it in a hellscape like this.</p><p>Gate 17 was my destination. I just wanted to quickly confirm Flight 48 was <em> actually </em>canceled since all I had received from the airline was a message with instructions to see the agent. That communication was never a good sign. It meant the flight had in fact been scrapped, and the system was lagging behind, or worse, it was in some sort of hellish limbo, not canceled, but not taking off either. If it was canceled, I’d have no option but to hop on the Express Train to Paddington Station and bed down for the night at one of my hotels nearby.  </p><p>The gate was only a few steps ahead, and when I arrived I saw the Priority Access poles and rope which were the demarcation line for those of us with “status”. They had been shoved out of the way next to a rubbish bin. It made for a fitting visual, I thought, as I hurried to the back of a group of people that had quickly congregated.</p><p>“Sir, excuse me,” I heard in a german accent. I turned to face a stocky man in a heavy red down coat with cheeks that matched in shade. German’s and their utilitarian coats, I mused with annoyance. It seemed they were always dressed for the outdoors. Why this coat probably converted into a pop-up tent when needed.</p><p>“The line begins back there.”</p><p>I ducked aside, spotting the distant endpoint he was gesturing towards. It wasn’t intentional this time, but I’d cut again, and I wordless mouthed sorry and continued onward. Once I took my place, I quickly counted off how many were in front of me. Probably at least forty heads stretched up to the agent, I wagered, and if all of them took around five minutes to be sorted and assigned a new boarding pass, I was in for a lengthy wait.</p><p>“Trying to skip ahead for a second time, were you?” A sharp American accent cut through my thoughts. I looked down to see that disheveled woman with the high heeled boots from earlier sliding up behind. She still looked flushed, as she propped that comically oversized purse on the top of her rolling bag and fished out a water bottle.</p><p>“You again,” I said with a sigh. I readied myself for her next quip. I assumed she was revving up her batteries to berate me for the third time.</p><p>“At least you didn’t shove that guy in the red coat down to the ground when he didn’t let you cut.” </p><p>She cocked her head with a wiry smirk, and I questioned if I should save face and pop in my headphones now, or wait for the next insult to hit. For some odd reason, I was curious about what she might say next. </p><p>“My sincerest apologies if you believe I meant to shove you down, but that’s not the case. I’ll have you know I played rugby. If I’d pushed you <em> intentionally </em>, you’d still be splayed out on that jetbridge.”</p><p>She was silent, staring blankly at me as though she wasn’t sure what to respond with. And I felt an instantaneous urge to backpedal, which was odd. Confrontation was in my blood. I lived for the occasional squabble. But giving this woman any more of her own medicine felt strangely cruel. I turned my body to fully face her, trailing my eyes down her from top to toe, along her ill-fitting coat and finally landing on those ridiculously inappropriate boots, and I willed myself to bury the proverbial hatchet. She was in over her head. We might be in line for an hour or more, and I could play nice for as long.</p><p>“That was a bad joke. My apologies.” I tucked my hands in the pockets of my charcoal overcoat. “You should know, I was never particularly good at Rugby. Tennis has always been more my sport.”</p><p>She flashed me a pearly smile and took a sip of her water before changing the subject, “This <em>is</em> the line for the Chicago flight, right? Flight 48 into O’Hare? I just want to make sure I’m not standing behind you for no good reason.”</p><p>“Yes, Flight 48. Original departure time was scheduled for six p.m., but I’m unable to find any updates online or on my app. Not sure whether it’s been officially canceled or only delayed. I’m assuming they’ll call it shortly since it seems we’ve landed in a blizzard.”</p><p>“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said as she removed her black-rimmed glasses and cleaned each lens with the hem of her blouse. I paused, staring as she did it. She looked suddenly transformed without the thick rims, and I was able to see for the first time her high cheekbones and naturally full lips that were pink and slightly chapped. Those lips were leading me down a dangerous trail of thought, and I wondered if she'd taste like the Chapstick I saw spill out of her bag earlier. I swallowed and redirected, looking now at her makeup, and, well, it had seen better days. But the hint of smudged black eyeliner accentuated her large brown eyes nevertheless, giving her lids a smokey effect I knew was completely accidental. I wondered if she might be...gorgeous if she owned a hairbrush and a better outfit. </p><p>“I don’t mean I haven’t seen snow before. We have a lot of that in Chicago." She pushed her glasses back on the bridge of her thin nose before continuing, “I’ve just never been in an airport this chaotic. Not that I’ve been in that many airports, but this looks like a warzone after a bomb went off.”</p><p>“My thoughts exactly.” We’d both come to that conclusion on our own.</p><p>She fished her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans, It was a big clunky thing with a glittery turquoise case. I saw the flash of her background before she opened a text message, and two small children cuddling next to a yellow labrador retriever smiled out from the screen.  </p><p>I raised my neck, suddenly feeling as though I was a peeping Tom who’d invaded her privacy. Of course, she was a mother. The woman was at least in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. It was difficult to gauge her age with the wild hair and oversized jacket, but her skin was smooth, not a wrinkle except for some faint lines around her eyes when she smiled. And those perfectly full lips looked like they belonged on a college girl.</p><p>There I was, thinking about her lips again when she had these two little ones and that dog and a husband waiting at home for her arrival. I felt like some sort of pervert, thinking of this stranger in such a way. Just because I didn’t have any children or a wife didn’t make my lifestyle the rule. At my age of forty-one, I was the exception.</p><p>“Sorry,” she mumbled as she typed furiously with both thumbs. “I’ve got to let my people know I’m stuck in London and won’t be on the flight home. I’m not on wifi so my data charges are probably going to be astronomical, but oh well.”</p><p>She shoved the phone back in her jeans and stuck her hand out towards me. “I’m Tessa, by the way.”</p><p>I stared down at her small hand and sparkled violet nail polish, considering whether I’d ever seen an adult woman wearing that particular shade of purple. The finish and specks of glitter reminded me of the paint on a speed boat I’d once been on in the Florida Keys.</p><p>“I’m, uh, Thomas. But my friends call me William. I go by my middle name,” I said as I extended my fingers to take hers in a congenial shake.</p><p>“Pleasure to meet you, William,” she said as she firmly gripped my hand.</p><p>Now, it had been my experience that with most women when a hand was extended, they reciprocated with barely a twitch. They’d give only the slightest squeeze and break away contact. But Tessa, she exerted more tactile force than I believed possible from such infantile hands. She was certainly a-typical. And a vision of her in a fringed buckskin jacket and matching cowboy hat flashed through my mind’s eye, as I imagined Tessa as some Annie Oakley type back home, pulling the trigger on a rogue outlaw with a long rifle.</p><p>The sound of a muffled voice over the loudspeaker shook me from this bizarre fantasy. I turned my head, squinting at the gate agent as she screeched into a black handheld receiver. The message was garbled at this distance, maybe at any distance, and I was unable to make out a damn thing the woman said.</p><p>“Did you hear any of that?” Tessa asked. As confused as I was.</p><p>“No, I’m afraid not.” I peered up over the heads in front of me to see if the digital sign might have changed. The front half of the line began to dissipate, with loud grumbles and flinging hands in the air, passengers were filling out in all directions. Like a bad game of telephone, the agent’s announcement traveled down the queue, until the woman in front of me turned to relay the news. Flight 48 was officially cancelled with no information on rescheduling due to the storm.</p><p>“Crap,” was what I heard behind me. Followed by a few curses and a heavy sigh.</p><p>I’d always expected they’d cancel the flight, and actually I was thankful they’d ripped the bandage off early instead of keeping us in this hellish limbo for any longer. At least now, we were free to exit the airport and get out of this madness at a reasonable hour. It meant I could enjoy a decent meal in the city, if I hurried, and a full night’s sleep at one of my hotels. </p><p>I turned, grabbing my Tumi hardside suitcase and looked squarely at my pitiful companion, furiously typing again on that massive phone. I didn’t want to pry, or overstep my bounds, but I was fairly confident this woman hadn’t been stranded in a foreign country before. I imagined her purchasing some cold fish and chips dinner and curling up in a corner for the night with the rest of the plebeians.</p><p>“Come along, <em> Mam </em>,” I said firmly over my shoulder. “We’re taking the Heathrow Express to the city.”</p><p>Thankfully, my command needed no reiteration. I heard Tessa huff and scurry on behind me. I couldn’t leave such a pitiable creature, a <em> mother </em>no less, in an airport overnight. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Heathrow Express</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“All I’ve got are leftover Francs, but I should have enough to cover it. How much do I owe you for my train ticket?" I asked William breathlessly. We’d made it out of Heathrow’s Terminal 5A, passing through customs and immigration at a breakneck speed. He found his way from memory alone – a quick left here, a hard-right there, down a ridiculously long escalator, all while weaving through the throngs of the stranded without effort. For this man, there was no stopping to squint at signage or check directions on an LCD map. Certainly, no breaks for the <em>loo</em> either. And from the fleeting reflections I caught of myself in the glass windows and chrome patricians we whizzed past, I needed a mirror desperately. My hair was as matted as a bird’s nest.</p><p>William’s strides were as precise as they were long, and there was no matching him in speed, or in sophistication. In my too high boots, dragging an ancient Land’s End suitcase I’d borrowed from my sister with a wobbling wheel, it took two or three steps for every one of his. Even though I was barely keeping up, it was a relief I didn’t have to navigate my way to the Express Train on my own. It was an Express Train I wouldn’t have enough thought existed without his recommendation. And I knew without his help, it might have taken hours instead of minutes to wind out this chaotic excuse for an airport.</p><p>“Business class tickets were only £55 for each of us, but, there's no need to reimburse me.” he paused passing me a paper ticket between his long middle and pointer fingers. He'd just purchased our passage from an automated kiosk. He slipped open his cashmere overcoat to return a slim leather wallet to the interior pocket of his jacket before starting off again.</p><p>"You can pick up the next one,” He said with the hint of a smirk.</p><p>There wouldn’t be a next one, and we both knew it. He’d merely taken pity on me, a pathetic American girl who was stranded in unfamiliar territory. He was like some WWII spy, commissioned to transport a soldier behind enemy lines and no further. I had a sinking suspicion that once we arrived at Paddington he’d bid me farewell and disappear off the train and into a mist of steam before I’d even gotten out of my seat.</p><p>We arrived at an extended platform. It was a modern and florescent tunnel coated in purple and yellow paint that resembled something out of a dystopian Sci-Fi thriller. Digital signs overhead blinked brightly, counting down the seconds and indicating the train car was less than two minutes out. Bold lettering edged the drop off to the tracks, reminding passengers to <em>Mind the Gap</em>.</p><p>Although it was written in English, that phrase sounded peculiar and I had to read it twice for the words to register. Somehow this country managed to feel completely foreign. All over the terminal, there were advertisements for brands I’d never seen back home and fast food joints that didn’t exist in Illinois. Accents of unknown origins blared out over the announcements on the loudspeakers and I had to concentrate to pick up the words syllable by syllable. And the people, well, they looked strangely off too. The Brit’s I’d observed so far were better dressed than most travelers I’d run across at home. In the States, flying gave adults permission to wear the equivalent of pajamas in public. Leggings and tank tops for women, and sweatpants and T-shirts for men had become the norm. But at this international hub, the travelers probably had their own personal tailors on speed dial. Women wore tightly belted Burberry coats and slim-fitting black slacks. The men looked just as smart in suits of dark greys and navy blues.</p><p>But somehow, William managed to outdress them all, in this charcoal cashmere overcoat that looked as though it cost more than my first car. And from the cut of the suit jacket, although I’d only seen it quickly when he'd put back his wallet, I guessed that probably cost the same. The lyrics to ZZ Top’s <em>Sharp Dressed Man</em> floated through my mind as I glanced at him.</p><p>“The Express Train will drop us off at Paddington Station. There are several hotels that would be perfectly suitable for you within walking distance. There’s a reasonably priced Hilton on Praed Street. Or you can hop on the tube if you have another area of London in mind.”</p><p>The tube. Nightmarish visions of red, yellow, and green intersecting lines on a flat grey map flashed in my mind. I was accustomed to the L Train back home, but I’d seen enough BBC Crime Dramas to know the tube in London was on an entirely different plain of complexity. I envisioned having to shove my way onto a congested subway car, attempting to navigate to some distant station, manhandling this suitcase with a bum wheel that was almost splitting apart at the seams. No, that was the last thing I felt like doing tonight.</p><p>“I’ll probably just get a cab. You have those here, right? It’s not just double-decker busses?” I asked with a smirk.</p><p>“Yes, we do have cabs." His eyes fixed on mine and smiled. “I believe that’s a wise idea." He extended his arm to check the time on a gleaming stainless watch. “Hyde Park is very near to Paddington. No shortage of fantastic hotels there if you’re in the mood to…splurge.”</p><p>He eyed me again, critically, probably questioning if I had enough in my checking account to cover a night’s stay in a world capital. Sure, I wasn’t well-traveled like he was, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t manage a decent hotel room on a layover. I’d paid off all my student loan debt several years before, and had a few substantial raises since. I’d accumulated a nice little cushion of savings for times just like this. An upscale hotel in London wasn’t going to break the bank like he probably assumed, and I felt a competitive urge to prove it to myself, and to him.</p><p>“Hyde Park?” I fished my phone from my purse. I connected to a questionable wifi network called <em>HotSpotKioskafé2</em>, because data reception so far underground was a lost cause.</p><p>“So what’s the best hotel in Hyde Park? Is there a Holiday Inn or a Motel Six? Or maybe you British people are so fancy you’ve got a Motel Seven,” I said, mimicking the trashiest drawled accent I could.</p><p>“Well,” he paused, flattening the lapel of his coat before he began. “The most expensive, that would be The Royal H near Speaker’s Corner. It’s a Hiddleston Imperial Collection Hotel. But best, that’s subjective, and all depends on what you’re looking for. If you want someplace more intimate with a boutique feel, The Mercure is lovely. 45 Park is excellent if you fancy something pre-war and art-deco. And of course, you can never go wrong with the Mandarin Oriental or the Four Seasons.”</p><p>“Isn't that the truth,” I laughed sarcastically. “I’ve always said you can’t ever go wrong with either of those.”</p><p>I scrolled down, past dozens of available hotels that looked relatively indistinguishable from their pictures. Similar grey or beige carpeting, white duvet covers in each room, and an obligatory orchid arrangement on a dark wood table in a marbled lobby were the same images on every listing. Sure, there was no arguing all of these were nice, but they seemed a bit bland. So, I did something I’d never done in my thirty-four years and sorted on my results from highest to lowest price.</p><p>The most expensive, as William had predicted, was this Royal H he’d prattled off first. It looked decidedly different from the rest, and the fabric designer in me wanted to stay there just from the bold prints and patterns I saw on the textiles alone. The rooms were painted in a rainbow of colors, some dark cobalt blues, and hunter greens, others in bright corals and golds. It looked…sumptuous. I moved on from the photos, as I skimmed descriptions of the property itself, hitting the high points. It had Five Stars, of course, and two swimming pools on site. There were not one, but three bars plus a rooftop lounge that offered “Exceptional Cocktails and Artizonal Mixology”. <em>Artisanal</em> was a word I fought the urge to giggle at. It gave the bartender permission to add ten dollars to the price. Thousand thread count Egyptian Cotton Sheets and Bvlgari toiletries were promised in every room. And the world-class Spa, with its imported Tibetian Mud Masks and Norweigian Steam showers, sounded too tempting in an imminent blizzard. Not to mention a Michelin four-star French Restaurant called Babette that received rave reviews. Yes, the Royal H certainly checked every box.</p><p>I logged into my Hotwire account, plugging in the password just as the slow rumble of a distant train and two beaming headlights barrelled towards us from the shadows of the tunnel. The train was approaching quickly and my heart began to race as the rumble deepened. I only had a few milliseconds to book something before I’d have to hop on and possibly lose my wifi signal. I scrolled furiously through the room options, and the first five types had "sold-out" stamped boldly over the reservation button. All that remained were a handful of suites and I caught my breath as the prices loaded. The Wexcroft Suite, with purple and turquoise mod carpet and a deep blue velvet upholstered headboard that resembled the feathers of a peacock, was the cheapest by several hundred pounds. I stared at a price with too many digits, realizing that probably didn’t even cover the city tax, hotel tax, the country tax, and a dozen other tiny charges that would magically appear on my bill on checkout.</p><p>I bit into my chapped lower lip, as the frugal miser who lived on my shoulder screamed an emphatic “No!” at top volume. It was more money than I’d spent on a room in my life. Hell, my sister’s bachelorette trip to Cabo had cost about the same - and that included a flight and my food drinks for three days. But something else, a little bougie voice inside my brain that gave me permission to add guacamole on my breakfast tacos, or upgrade to top-shelf rum for mojitos told me to book. I hadn’t done any shopping in Geneva, except for some cheesy souvenirs for my niece and nephew. I also hadn’t had the time or the energy to splurge on lavish meals or drinks at night. I deserved to treat myself, especially now during a snowstorm. What was the point of working my butt off five days a week if I didn’t experience some perks every now and again?</p><p>Screw it, I thought. And I pushed “Reserve”. My heart was thumping wildly, adrenaline pumping through my veins like a gambler pulling the arm on an Atlantic City slot machine. The front car flew past as it slowed, a blur of silver and glass and chrome, picking up my hair and whipping it behind my shoulder. Load, dangit, I mumbled under my breath.</p><p>“Do you have your ticket?” William asked with squinting brow as he adjusted and pulled on each of the sleeves of his coat and grabbed the handle of his suitcase as if he was preparing to sprint on board. “You’ll need to be ready to get on promptly. We don’t want to doddle just now and you’ll have plenty of time for checking your phone on the train.”</p><p>I stared down at a spinning grey circle, as the page for my booking loaded at a snail’s pace. William was so impatient. So unbelievably bossy. He’d had a criticism and a command at every turn. But, somehow I wasn't annoyed by his comments anymore. No, they was starting to grow on me when he spoke. But in truth, every word and syllable were so polished, so flawless, a Chinese takeout menu would have sounded enthralling if he read it to me.</p><p>
  <em>Booking Confirmed</em>
</p><p>My phone flashed just as the train slid to a stop and the doors parted with a loud ding. “Got it right here,” I said confidently. I whipped my paper ticket out of my pocket and pushed my phone in my purse, following behind William onto the brightly lit car.</p><p>The train was hardly full, not even half of the seats were taken. Only an older woman with a fur hat and shearling coat along with a young giggling Chinese couple joined us in the first-class car. The abundance of unoccupied seats freed us to spread out with our bags and belongings. I took the front bench behind a large flat screen playing subtitled news segments from SKY and meteorology clips on mute. The storm was fierce. Surges of white, green, and blue swirled up in pixilated strokes moving up from the Atlantic across the whole of the UK. London seemed to be receiving the brunt of it, smack in the middle of a giant white whirling blob.</p><p>STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS PLEASE</p><p>DING, DONG, DING</p><p>The train’s doors clamped shut and the locomotive picked up speed, taking off swiftly into the darkness of the narrow tunnel ahead. Lights flickered outside, and blips of snow-covered track flashed by in the night, barely illuminated by dim yellow lamps. We were somewhere in the outskirts of London, with industrial flues and stubby blocks of apartment complexes crowded together out each side of the car. It didn’t look that unfamiliar, and for a split second, I wondered if I was actually on the CTA back home.</p><p>“As I said in my email, you’ll need to relay to Mr. Fisher that we’ll have to push this closing to next month. There is no possible way I can be in Chicago by Thursday unless he plans to teleport me into the Willis Tower,” William said curtly from the seat behind mine. He’d been on his cell for several minutes, adjusting plans and re-arranging meetings. It sounded like a month’s work of obligations he’d squeezed into a week.</p><p>“We’ll just all have to change our schedules,” he said with a sigh. The “ch” in that word was emphasized with all the dramatic inflection of a Shakspearean actor at the Royal Academy.</p><p>“Apologies,” He said as he leaned forward towards my seat and stowed his phone in his coat pocket. “It seems this snowstorm is causing all sorts of difficulties. I was to be at a meeting day after next, and the change of plans is sending my team into a tailspin.”</p><p>“Totally understand. My boss is pretty peeved I can’t be in tomorrow. I was supposed to give a full report of my trip to Geneva. I sort of went as her…” I tried to think of the correct word, but nothing came to me. Was I her ambassador? Her substitute? Or something in between?</p><p>Candice Wyatt, my boss, was the sort of supervisor that made Cruella Deville seem warm and approachable. She had a temper as fiery as the ruby lipstick she wore regardless of season, and sharp black eyebrows that could put you in your place faster than words ever could. But over the few years I’d been at Watson &amp; Wyatt Textiles, we’d formed a working relationship my colleges were jealous of. Candice and I had little in common except work, but we <em>got</em> each other, and whispers around the water cooler hinted that she’d promote me to Junior VP if this Geneva project was a success.</p><p>“I was there in my boss's place, to check everything out and give her a full report. She’s been trying to get me more involved on the business side of my work for a while.”</p><p>“Ah, so business isn’t in your background?” He asked, crossing his arms. His coat flexed under the strain. Long and slim muscles twisted under the fabric in lean bulges, and I fought the urge to bend over the seat and grip his bicep with my hand.</p><p>“Sorry, what did you say?” I asked as I shut my lids, realizing I’d been so distracted by those arms and shoulders I’d completely quit listening to the man.</p><p>“I’d asked about your background. It sounds like it isn’t business-related.”</p><p>“Oh no, not at all,” I tucked a stray tangle behind my ear and went on. “I got my undergrad in graphic design, and then my master’s is in fine arts. I absolutely fell in love with fabrics during grad school, so that’s what I went into. Textile design.”</p><p>“Absolutely fell in love…” he echoed my words and flashed a broad and beautiful smile that almost clocked me out of my seat. His teeth were perfect. I decided that the old story about British people having terrible teeth was only a tall tale.</p><p>“I’ve never heard anyone describe their job, of all things, as something they were in <em>love</em> with.”</p><p>“Maybe that's not the right way to put it. I just meant, I genuinely enjoy what I do. I can't imagine doing anything else.”</p><p>“Oh, no reason to back-peddle, I’m glad to hear it. I can assure you, in my business, it’s refreshing to hear that sort of passion can still exist in the workplace. Most of the people I’m forced to be around don’t often show your exuberance. It seems the higher up the ladder you climb, the closer to burn out you get.”</p><p>Burn out as of recently had become my biggest fear. I fidgeted with the strap of my bag on my lap, unsure if I should tell this stranger he’d hit the nail right on the head. I’d been worrying about that exact issue for some time now. And the likelihood of a possibly imminent promotion had left me simmering on those thoughts for the last few weeks.</p><p>“That is what I’m worried about is burning out. I adore what I do now – designing, and all that comes with that, it just feels natural and fun for me. But, if I want to move up anymore, that means way more business planning, budget meetings, and networking with strangers. I'm not sure if I’m ready to give up the enjoyable stuff for a better job title.”</p><p>“No,” he said, dipping his head and staring at the weave of the purple carpet. His face looked, oddly thoughtful. Something I hadn’t see yet from his slim and refined features. “I don’t believe that’s something anyone seeks out willingly.”</p><p>A loud jingle, like it was coming from someone with a Casio keyboard, blared out of the car’s speakers, distracting myself, and William from the suddenly serious tone our small talk had taken. We’d be arriving in a few moments, I was strangely nervous about how to part ways with this man I’d just barely gotten to speak to. My own insecurities seeped up, as I stared down at my big puffy coat and the split ends of my tangled hair, painfully aware that any attempt on my part to exchange contact information might be met with hyena style laughter. I bit my lip, tasting the chapstick I’d applied on the plane two hours before, and my shoulders slumped in defeat. There was no way in hell this guy would want anything else to do with me.</p><p>“Do you know where you’re headed? I can walk you to a cab if you need me to.” He stood, pulling my bag and his down from the carpeted luggage storage racks at the back of the car.</p><p>“That’s very kind, but I’ve got to find a ladies' room. Maybe I’ll get a coffee here too before I head to my hotel,” I said as we walked onto the platform. Steam curled up from the train, rising towards the tall Victorian latticed iron and glass roof, collecting white with snow. The chill from the open entrances hit me, seeping through the down of my jacket and the thick wool of my socks to my bones. It couldn’t have been more than twenty degrees fahrenheit or some negative number in celsius. </p><p>William pulled out a black plaid scarf from the front compartment of his bag, effortlessly looping it around his neck and tucking it beneath his coat. He looked like some GQ Model from the December cover, and I swallowed, letting my eyes trace up his perfect black dress shoes, to his cashmere overcoat, and those eyes made all the bluer in contrast to the inky shine of his slicked hair. I wanted to remember every inch of him before we'd part ways for good.</p><p>“Well, I guess I need to say thanks for getting me here in one piece,” I thrust fingers behind my ears, striving to push the mess of my hair out of my face in a nervous reflex. “I would probably still be in that crazy airport it wasn't for your help.”</p><p>“It was no trouble,” he said with a half-smile.</p><p>I was unsure of what to do to close this interaction. Should I extend my hand out for him to shake? Should I hug him? The thought of full-frontal contact sent an irrational flush of embarrassment through me. I was certain the last thing this guy wanted to do was hug a strange girl in Paddington Station.</p><p>“Safe travels home to your children, Tessa. I hope you have a pleasant layover in London,” he said as he closed the distance between us and draped a long arm over my shoulder, squeezing lightly. The smell of his cologne, or his soap, whatever it was stuck me for the second time. God, he smelled delicious, and before I could truly appreciate our brief embrace, he stepped away and turned to move towards the exit. He took a few paces, and disappeared out of sight, off into the crowd.</p><p><em>Children?</em> My heart sped up like the vintage-looking train that was just pulling away beside me. My pulse echoing in my eardrums drowned out the sounds of the crowded platform, and I could only hear his words on repeat in my mind. Why on earth did he say that? I looked down at the phone in my hand, and the little faces that stared out from the background of my cell. The truth washed up like a tide. He'd seen my cellphone background assumed my sister’s kids – my niece and nephew – were actually <em>mine</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Reservations</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The surge of blood I felt to my face wasn’t caused by the cold, as I stepped onto the sludgy sidewalk from Padington’s London Street exit. It was the tingle of embarrassment from that uncomfortable interaction I’d just subjected Tessa, and myself to. It had been terribly awkward. So bloody unnecessary, that I felt a strong urge smack both my cheeks with a firm palm.</p><p>Tessa had frozen like some proverbial deer in headlights while I’d wrapped my arm around her in an embrace of sorts. And she, in turn, hadn’t reciprocated the gesture in the slightest. The poor girl was probably overwhelmed with fear I was some sort of English deviant, fondling her without provocation or consent. Why didn’t I shake her hand? Or better yet, not invaded her personal space at all as we parted ways? I’d suffered through enough HR seminars to know better. A simple goodbye would have sufficed, I reasoned, now with the gleaming clarity of hindsight.</p><p>I wasn’t entirely sure what had come over me. She was leaning against her suitcase, bidding me adieu in a tone that wasn’t harsh or sarcastic. And in the soft lighting of the train platform, she looked...pretty. That mess of hair like a halo around her soft features. Steam was rising up to the ironwork and glass rafters from the tracks, mingling with the flakes of snow that were blustering in from all sides. I was in my best cashmere coat, catching our reflection in the slender glass panes of the locomotive beside us. It all felt like something from a John le Carré novel. Terribly dramatic and dare I say, romantic? And on a whim, without giving my impulse a rational thought, I leaned in to hug the woman farewell.</p><p>At least I didn’t kiss her, I thought, and I tugged the collar of my coat up to provide some shielding from the biting winds. My stomach contorted involuntarily, as I imagined myself kissing a married woman in Paddington Station of all places. That would have been too ridiculous. Tessa had to be married, or off the market. With two children that young, there was bound to be a husband waiting anxiously at home, and he wouldn’t be too keen on the idea of me kissing his wife. Good thing the chap was thousands of miles away. Although maybe a firm fist to the jaw was precisely what I needed to get myself leveled out.</p><p>“For Christ’s sakes, William, pull yourself together,” I muttered aloud, and a little too stridently judging from the side-eye a man to my left shot my direction as we waited at the crossing. The signage switched from stop to walk, and I pushed onward along the park. The view was picturesque if you appreciate London in the locks of a wintery mix. The low lying clouds swallowed the bright lights of London, reflecting off blues and pinks and yellows. It looked like some magical time that was neither day or night but purely mystical in nature. Large flakes fell casually, in no real rush to land. They were just beginning to pile on bare November branches and wrought iron fence posts that lined Hyde park.  </p><p>But as mesmerizing as the scene should have been, my thoughts kept returning to Tessa. Was I that starved for female interaction that I felt a misguided urge to hug her? Maybe only a psychiatrist could diagnose what the problem, or more aptly problems in the plural were with me. </p><p>In the past months, my relationship with my Fiancé Vivian had crumbled like a burnt biscuit. I wasn’t even entirely certain what to call her anymore, things had eroded to such an extent, and I’d caught myself letting it slip to a few friends and colleagues that we were <em> estranged </em>. That had always seemed an infuriatingly unspecific word in the context of romantic relationships, as though the person using it wasn’t man, or woman, enough to cut and run. But, in my case, I wasn’t sure how to do either when she declined to see me, or at the very least answer my calls. She scarcely responded via text. And when I’d just notified her out of courtesy of my unexpected layover in London, I’d received only an abrupt “OK.” I was more annoyed than angry at this junction. More embarrassed than hurt about the whole ordeal. This situation was wholly her doing after all, and it seemed comical she was the one taking it out on me. After the litany of her indiscretions with my supposedly dearest friend no less, it ought to have been the other way around I reasoned. I should have been the one not taking Vivian’s calls. </p><p>“Good evening, Mr. Hiddleston,” a familiar voice with only the slightest hint of a French accent met me as I swung through the gilded doors of The Royal H. It was Marianna, the General Manager who I had promoted the previous year. </p><p>A few bellmen in top hats and sweeping black overcoats went out of their way to bow in my direction while a young red-headed concierge almost dropped her telephone receiver as she spotted my entry. I gave her a curt nod in greeting, making some attempt to mask my irritation. I hated the pomp and pageantry that was flung my direction when I arrived at one of my hotels. I couldn’t stand the nervous whispers, and jitters, and transfixed glances I got from staff. I desired anonymity when I stayed at my own properties. I asked for discretion. I wanted to be treated as any other guest would. But because I was the CEO of the Hiddleston International Hotel Group, that request was seldom met. Not even my best staff members, like Marianna, were able to accommodate me.</p><p>“We weren’t expecting you this evening,” she said as she moved swiftly behind the thick marble reception counter. The lobby looked spotless as it should have, with white gleaming Carerra floors and black marble accents peppering all four corners. A chandelier composed of thousands of delicate crystalline beads slung low from the ornately plastered ceiling and was wider than I was tall. Below it was a dark lacquered table covered in white and red flowers, mostly roses, tulips, and orchids. The flowers were arranged in staggered clumps, perfuming the space like a florist's shop.   </p><p>“We’ve almost sold out...but....we do have a few suites left,” She said as she began typing furiously with her long manicured nails on a sleek metal keyboard. “It may take me a minute to get you checked in. We’ve been having some issues with the software since last week's updates.”</p><p>I let out a barreling sigh in exasperation. We’d been dealing with IT contractors for the last two weeks on sorting out this new booking platform. The newfangled system had promised increased usability, and productivity, both of which had yet to be delivered. If anything we’d all been less productive because of it. I’d been in ten bloody meetings and at least as many conference calls running through the particulars and the damn software still didn’t work.</p><p>“And you’ve made Beverly in IT aware of this?” I asked in a grumble, offering no attempt to camouflage the frustration from my tone. “I’ll call her right now if needed.”</p><p>“I’ve been on the phone with Beverly, twice today in fact. Her group is troubleshooting the issues. But no need to fret, we’ve discovered a workaround to bypass the glitch, it will just take me a minute until I can get you squared away,” She resumed pounding away on the keys and offered me the faintest smirk. “Not every problem we encounter should be handled personally by the CEO, Mr. Hiddleston. With all due respect, that’s my job to manage these sorts of things, and I do my job very well.”</p><p>She was right. It wasn't technically in my job description to make calls about software glitches, or negotiate deals with spirit and wine distributors, or red line property contacts, or interview head chefs in the restaurants of my hotels, but I did those things nevertheless. I described it as extreme ownership. Taking on each aspect of the company as much as possible. Delegating was a perpetual struggle and I took a breath, electing to allow her to handle this issue without my interference for once.</p><p>Marianne was as stunning as she was brilliant. I had no doubt she could manage things, as aptly as she managed everything at The Royal H. She’d somehow cut costs while increasing revenue by twenty percent in the last year. But, her looks were sometimes a distraction for me, especially tonight. Her thick hair was styled in simple curls, coiled in a tasteful bun at the nape of her long neck with a few perfect black ringlets slipping out. Her skin was a brown and buttery ebony that reflected the soft lighting of the lobby. She looked radiant as usual. But as gorgeous as I thought she was, I’d never warmed up to the idea of mixing business with pleasure. My subordinates were simply that and could never be anything else. Unlike my father, that was a threshold I refused to cross.</p><p>“I’d prefer you didn’t put me in a suite if you can avoid it. Just whatever King room you’ve got will suffice. Save the best rooms for the Russian oligarchs or Japanese businessmen who might need a last-minute reservation in this bloody blizzard.” I pulled out my passport and slid it across the cold marble of the counter towards her. It was almost time for a new one, I realized, as I stared down at its frayed edges and worn corners. It wasn’t nearing expiration, I still had years until that, but It was chock-full of stamps after months of my grueling schedule. Only a few more pages remained blank in the back and I made a mental note to have my assistant Timothy expedite a new one for me as soon as he found the time.</p><p>Dark eyes darted accusingly at mine from under long false lashes as Marianna continued to type. “You’re here at least once a month. I don’t need to see that passport. But…I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed in your room this evening. We only have three suites left.”</p><p>“I guess that should be good news and not bad, right? Means you’re keeping this place full,” I shoved my passport back in the inner pocket of my suit jacket. “Just put me in the least expensive one.” I snapped my fingers in thought, unable to pull from memory the name of the room I was envisioning. “What is that smaller room? The two-bedroom that’s teal and purple and looks like a peacock exploded in it?”</p><p>“I believe you’re talking about the Wexcroft Suite, Sir. And no animals <em>exploded</em> in it. That feathered headboard cost over £4,000.” Her fingers flew across the keyboard. It was almost comical how much typing the check-in process required. “We had a very late departure this afternoon from that suite so it might be an hour or so before housekeeping is finished.”</p><p>“That’s fine. Gives me a reason to head to the lounge for a quick dinner. Just fetch me when the room’s ready,” I said as I turned to head across the lobby with my luggage. </p><p>“As you wish, Mr. Hiddleston. You <em> are </em> the boss.”</p>
<hr/><p>I should have waited and requested room service to be brought up. The hotel being at almost total capacity meant a quiet booth in the lounge area wasn’t available as it ordinarily should have been on a Thursday evening. Guests were crammed like sardines, occupying every available seat in the lounge, the restaurant, and the lobby bar. Good for business, but bad for me, I reasoned. And all I wanted was a quick bite and a table to set my laptop on to send a few emails.</p><p>I was forced to prop myself at a leather stool at the end of the Lobby’s bar, squeezing in next to an older woman who’s perfume was so strong, I wondered if she’d been embalmed in it. I glanced at the drink menu, out of curiosity really, to see what absurd concoctions the bartenders were serving up now. Everyone in the hospitality industry was fixated on something called, <em>Mixology</em>, a buzzword that seemed to have swept in overnight. The more eccentric your bartenders, and the more ridiculous your ingredients, the posher the place seemed to be. In my opinion, Mixology was a pseudo-artform, deserving the same reverence as astrology. But, those tiny drinks with unusual ingredients could fetch upwards of twenty pounds a pop. So the businessman in me welcomed the trend, even though I personally thought it ridiculous.</p><p>I scanned down the heavy cardstock menu at descriptions for lavender-infused gins, jackfruit jalapeno mojitos, and some mescal mixture that was accompanied by a jar of actual smoke you were to sniff before your first sip. Good god, people are mad to order these things, I reflected. My tastes were decidedly less fussy and more traditional. I very rarely strayed beyond whiskey or the occasional pint.</p><p>The chill in my bones wasn’t conceding, and I questioned if a whiskey—neat—might be just the trick to warm up. So, I ordered a Glenlivet for my drink and the seared halibut for my supper, and settled into the leather of the barstool. The fish was delicious. I thought about ordering a second as the bartender cleared my plate, but decided against it. My room should have been ready, or very near, as I took the last sip of my drink and turned over my shoulder to see if Marianna was still behind the desk. She was, and the lengthy queue of guests in check-in had seemingly prevented her from dropping her post to fetch me. As I scrawled my signature on my bill, something caught my attention. in the Lobby. I spotted a familiar-looking down puffer jacket and an unmistakable tangle of coffee colored hair. For some inexplicable reason, Tessa from the train was in <em>my</em> Lobby.</p><p>I hopped down from my barstool, walking over to her in a fog of confusion and excitement, unsure if the whisky was playing tricks on me. No, it couldn’t be her, could it? I almost asked aloud as I moved. But when I reached the lobby floor, I identified the mangled suitcase and those unmistakable high-heeled boots. No denying it was her.</p><p>“Tessa?” I asked more as a question than a greeting, and she spun round in such a hurry I thought she might fall again as she’d done on the jetway. She gripped a cup of something hot, tea I thought by the looks of it, and a bit sloshed out of the lid on her jacket.</p><p>“It’s you! —” she caught her breath and redirected, “Are you staying here too?” The confusion was painted boldly on her features. She quickly wiped off the spilled tea from her coat with her free hand, presumably wishing I hadn’t seen. I had, but I couldn’t concentrate on that. No, something was markedly different in her appearance. While she hadn’t taken the time to brush her hair out, she’d ditched the glasses and freshened her face. A light dusting of highlighter bounced off her cheekbones. Her eye's had been shadowed and rimmed with black liner. And her once chapped lips were now a deep and rosy red. She looked transformed from the person I’d left in Paddington Station less than an hour before.</p><p>“Well yes, I am. And I see you are as well?” I adjusted my suit, realizing I’d hopped up from the bar in such a hurry, I hadn’t bothered to button my jacket.   </p><p>“Yes, I was able to get one of the last rooms online. You did say this was the best hotel in Hyde Park, so I took your advice.”</p><p>“Ahh, that’s right. I completely forgot I’d suggested it to you. Although I don’t believe I said it was the <em>best</em>, I said it was the most expensive. Sometimes those aren’t mutually exclusive.”</p><p>She unzipped her jacket, sliding it off her shoulders and draping it over her arms, giving me a good glimpse of what was underneath for the first time. Curvy, was all I could think of her silhouette. Christ, her husband was a lucky bastard. She had a true hourglass figure. I trailed the line of her body, noting every supple bend, like some F1 driver might examine a track rendering. Broad hips tapered in towards her slim waist. Her waist jutted out again at her full and rounded chest. The blouse left little to the imagination as I stared at the buttons barely able to contain her breasts. My eyes stopped, transfixed by one button, in particular, that was strained by thin fabric and what was underneath. I felt the misplaced urge to lean in and pop the button loose, and my cock twitched involuntarily from the idea. </p><p>“This check-in line looks crazy. I guess you’ve already been through it?” </p><p>“Yes,” I said as I coughed, collecting myself and redirecting my eyes from that blouse to the line behind her. “I’ve already checked in, just waiting for my room to be ready. It should die down soon – you’re welcome to join me for a drink instead of queuing. I’ve a spot at the bar and I can scrounge up a barstool for you as well.”</p><p>“Well,” she paused as she glanced back at the stagnant line and crowd of guests. “I guess I can have one drink before bed. What's the old saying, <em>When in Rome</em>?” </p><p>“<em>When in London</em>,” I corrected. I grabbed her suitcase and led her back to the bar. It was a bad idea. Terrible, really. No good could come of a drink with this mother of two, in my hotel, when that button on her too-tight blouse was driving me positively mad. </p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. All Bottled Up</h2></a>
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    <p>“If you’re hungry, might I recommend the halibut as a main course? It was excellent when I had it earlier. It was accompanied with a mango chutney sauce I had to request an extra ramekin of,” William said as he shot his hand up in the air, a silent signal for the bartender to come down to our end of the bar.</p><p>I scanned my eyes around the space which was dimly lit by low hanging gold fixtures and paper shaded wall sconces. Half-moon red velvet booths were tucked tightly along the back of the room under shuttered windows and trimmed in dark mahogany. A wall of old leatherbound books caught my eye, brimming with knickknacks and priceless artifacts between what were probably first editions. Heavy oriental rugs in bold corals and oxblood reds were set diagonally along the gleaming floors, like they’d been haphazardly placed. But the designer in me knew better. </p><p>This lounge gave off the effect of understated sophistication, something thrown together from flea markets or antique stores or treasures found in a dusty attack. But, I could tell by the fabrics and trimmings, there was nothing second hand about this. I gawked at the wallpaper on one of the back walls around a roaring black marble fireplace. The paper was incredible, with a blood orange background and exotic birds nesting in what looked like pomegranate branches. It was modern whimsey, I thought, and I made a mental note to try and get a picture on my phone before I checked out. It was the kind of print that was almost annoyingly pretty - I wished I’d come up with it myself.   </p><p>I had to focus, as I followed behind William in my too tall boots past the clumps of crowded four-top tables to his spot at the end of the bar. The place was full of the sort of international clientele you’d expect a five star London Hotel to bring in. These were people with too much botox and too many zeros in their checking accounts. Most of the women were dressed to the nines, somehow clothed for a surprise snowstorm. I spotted expensive Burberry coats, real mink vests, and thick tartan scarves in every nook and cranny. In contrast, in my puffy coat, I probably looked like I belonged out on the sidewalk with a shovel clearing the snow. </p><p>“Oh, actually I’ve already eaten dinner,” I answered as I struggled to scoot myself up. The stool William had gotten a waiter to haul over was all heavy wood and thick crushed velvet, and moving once I was on top of it was a complicated process. Finally, I’d awkwardly pulled myself as close to the wood top as I would get and I went on, “I was starving so I grabbed some fish and chips at a to-go place in Paddington Station before I came here to check in.” I reached for the cardstock cocktail menu from between us to have a look at my beverage options.</p><p>“Fish and chips at the station?”, he said dryly, squinting his eyes at me as though I’d told him I’d grilled a pigeon in Hyde Park over a dumpster fire. “Hopefully that was decent. I haven’t actually eaten inside Paddington in ages. I couldn’t even tell you what stalls are there. </p><p>“And, Just so you know, those are only the specialty cocktail drinks for the week. They are probably all rubbish,” he said as he watched me inspect the menu. “Jarome can bring you the full list or the wine book. Both are quite extensive.”</p><p>“And <em>expensive</em>,” I said with a smirk, shifting my eyes to the towering wall of liquor in front of us and behind the bar. Mercury treated mirrors with dim strip lighting underneath picked up a hundred colors of spirits, from dark Cognacs and amber Scotches to crystal clear Russian Vodkas. For my untrained pallet, every shelf was top shelf and gleamed like an eighty proof prism.</p><p>“Oh, I’m sure there is something here on the cocktail list that I’ll want to try. If the drinks are half as good as the design of this bar, I'm in for a treat.” But the more I read the menu, the more unsure of that statement I became. Turmeric Hibiscus Sidecars, Radish Acai Mimosas, Juniper Root Manhattans, and some mezcal drink served with its own bottle of smoke didn’t sound like they’d take the edge off. If anything, a drink like that might stress me out even more. And I was certainly stressed. Sitting next to this incredibly handsome man, desperate to tell him the kids he’d assumed were my actually weren’t. God, did I need an adult beverage, and stat.</p><p>He flicked his wrist again in the direction of the frazzled bartender, obviously annoyed it had taken a second attempt, and I let my eyes settle on his profile. Thick dark locks were slicked behind his ears, not a stray hair was out of place. And so close to him, I could really appreciate how good looking the man really was. It wasn’t that each of his features was textbook perfect. No, his nose was a little too long and narrow and his lips were a tad bit thin, but somehow that made him all the more appealing to me. William managed to be more handsome than the sum of his parts, and his confidence, well that only magnified the effect. That jawline, still fresh like he shaved on the half-hour kept distracting my thoughts. I wondered what it might feel like to run my fingertips across the smoothness of it, or to feel it push into the skin between my thighs. </p><p>“I’ll just have a red wine,” I told a bartender who’d materialized from thin air in front of us. The man was short and stocky, with a flawlessly groomed mustache and a shaved head I guessed was more of a fashion statement than the result of actual baldness. He looked younger than I was in the face, but the way he was dressed threw me off the trail. With a double-breasted vest complete with brass pocket watch and chain I wondered if he’d been born in the eighteen-eighties instead of the nineteen-eighties.</p><p>“Might I make some recommendations for you, <em> Madam </em>? Our house Chianti is delightful, from a boutique vineyard in the rolling hills of Arezzo. Or we’ve a lovely Carmenère blend from the Maipo Valley in Chile just outside Santiago. In that wine, you can taste the cool breezes from the Andes. I’d also suggest the Cresidando Tempernello hailing from--”</p><p>“Bring the Jadot Clos Vougeota, if we’ve any left,” William cut off the bartender in a tone that was less than friendly.</p><p>“Certainly, Sir. That is sold only by the bottle and not <em> le verre </em>.” </p><p>“I’m well aware, Jerome. We’ll have the bottle and two glasses,” William shot back in a throaty grumble before the poor bartender raced off to get the bottle. </p><p>“Jerome is outstanding but quite long-winded. He turns every drink order into a tour around the world. The chap thinks he’s some sort of Carmen Sandiego, prattling off all that geography when all one wants is to get some bloody alcohol in them.”</p><p>“I hate to admit it, but I don’t know that much about wines, so I’m relieved you ordered. I usually will just go with a vodka soda, but it seems too cold for that tonight. What was it you got us? A <em> Jadot Claw </em>-?” I stopped, concerned I would completely butcher the pronunciation if I went any further. For me, French had always been easier to read and hear than to speak even though I’d taken electives in high school and college. My boss, Candice, had been less than polite when she’d heard me in Geneva stumbling on a conference call. After it was over I got a curt text telling me to take whatever classes I needed on the company’s dime, since she said my skills were "barely passable". Not high praise, even from her.  </p><p>“A Jadot Clos Vougeota, from Burgundy. Quite a distinctive Pinot Noir for the price point. It’s one of the varieties I personally negotiated for Royal H Hotels after visiting the vineyard. That place this ancient operation. Been in the family for hundreds of years I suspect. Quiet a picturesque vineyard, although I’m afraid no one has heard of them. I believe the vintner's college-age nephew runs their marketing department from his smartphone,” he said with a laugh.</p><p>“So, you <em>actually</em> work for Hiddleston International Hospitality Group?” I asked in a stupor. I’d tried to hide my confusion, but I was sure my crinkling face gave away every thought that swirled through my racing mind. There wasn’t much hospitable about this guy, from the way he’d tried to intimate me on the plane, and now bossed around the waiter. He was not the definition of friendliness I expected a hotel employee to be. In fact, I had a difficult time picturing him serving anyone but himself.</p><p>“You could say that,” he replied flatly as he drained the last sliver of whisky from a cut crystal tumbler.</p><p>“I had no idea! Why didn’t you mention it earlier?” I stared on in disbelief. He was seated so confidently on the barstool, one long leg touching the dark parquet floor, the other bent and resting on the bronze trim around the bar. One shoulder was draped casually along the leather back of his stool, like some roman emperor lounging in his palace. While I was sure I looked like some toddler in a too-big highchair.  I rearranged myself in my seat, turning my body towards his and straightening my back as I did. I had to remind myself not to slouch and pushed my chest out to compensate for my bad posture. </p><p>“It didn’t come up earlier. And, it’s been my experience that the people who are most eager to tell others what they do for a living are those with the least interesting jobs.” He pushed his empty glass away from him with his long slim fingers towards the very edge of the wood bar top.</p><p>My mind raced, back to me blabbing on the train about my work and my boss and my business in Geneva. He was probably referring to me, as some person with a boring job talking too much about it to anyone that would listen. But, if he did work for Hiddleston Hotels, that was a crazy development. They could be an enormous account for my textile firm - a real white whale. If I could get my foot in with someone in their design department, it had the potential to be a huge win for me. Candice might realize I was taking the business side seriously and showing initiative, and it could give me an excuse to reach out to William in the future.</p><p>“Well, it’s crazy that I’ve met you. They’re an account I’d love to get a foot in the door with. Hiddleston is opening up new properties all over the world all the time, and I could totally help with any large orders for drapes or fabrics. You know, give you guys a good discount now that we're opening a factory in Europe,” I bit my lip, unsure if I should go on with the next part. I decided what the hell, as I fished out my leather card case from my giant purse and pushed down my trepidations. This was networking, and I might as well give him my contact information. What harm could come from that?</p><p>“I’m sure interior stuff is way out of your scope, but would you mind passing along my card to someone that handles design?”</p><p>He stared at my business card, studying it intently before his cobalt eyes darted back up to mine. “You’re right, I don’t really have much involvement with interior design. That’s left to the--”</p><p>“Before you turn me down, hear me out,” I interrupted. “Just drop the card on the desk. Shoot a quick email with my name and number. That’s all I’m asking! It’s really the least you can do since you knocked me down on the jet bridge. You’re lucky I didn’t call the Air Marshall,” I said with a laugh, trying to lighten the mood my work talk had darkened.</p><p>He smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re in the UK, Tessa. We don’t have Air Marshall’s here.”</p><p>“Fine, Air Bobbies. You know what I meant. All I’m asking for is a little teenie tiny favor.”</p><p>“Well, I guess it doesn't hurt to put you in touch with someone. I’ll see what I can do,” he said as he raised his black eyebrows, and tucked my card in the jacket of his suit."You are...quite persuasive."</p><p>I trailed my gaze down the thin grey lapel to his tapering waist across a slim-cut white dress shirt, landing at his dark leather belt. To his credit, the man knew how to dress, and my eyes lingered at his slacks, as I noticed that the substantial bulge in his trousers wasn’t a pleat, it was the outline of his cock. I felt my heartbeat quicken, a flush shoot to my cheeks, and a rush of warmth pooled in my stomach that wasn’t from the heat of the room. It was from him. I imagined if this was his length normally, what things might look like after I'd slid my fingers down him. He'd be absolutely massive. My lips parted in an unconscious gesture as I wondered what it might be like to put my mouth around his member.</p><p>The bartender, Jerome, returned just in time, sidelining my X Rated thoughts with the dust-covered bottle and two stemmed wine glasses. He produced a small knife from his vest pocket, cutting away the excess foil from the neck of the bottle before he uncorked it in a few elegant twists. It was so easy on his part, I figured he’d uncorked thousands of bottles, and he streamed a sliver in my glass to taste.</p><p>“Oh, I’m sure it will be wonderful. I don’t need to try any before you pour me a glass,” I said with a smile. I’d always hated it when waiters expected me to sample something, as though I’d send it back or have a sharp criticism like a sommelier in training. Unless the liquid inside had somehow turned to vinegar, which was highly unlikely, there was a 100% chance I'd happily drink anything that was poured in front of me.</p><p>He shot William a questioning glance like he was asking permission to serve it. I must have been breaking some unwritten bartending code. And William nodded indifferently in his direction. The waiter obeyed, topping both our glasses to the invisible 1/3rd mark. I elevated mine. It was lightweight and delicate and so unlike the Target wine glasses I owned at home. I pushed it to my companion to toast, but instead of clinking, he tilted the wine slightly in my direction and took a quick sip as he mumbled a quiet, "cheers".</p><p>“Hopefully you can find some enjoyment on this impromptu layover. Have you been to London before?” he asked after he'd swallowed, his adams apple bobbing above the starched collar of his dress shirt.</p><p>“Nope, never. This is my first time in the UK. Other than Switzerland now, Mexico and Canada are the only other stamps I’ve got in my passport,” I said with a sigh, imagining how many places this guy had seen in his lifetime. A man like William probably didn’t even keep track at this point whether it was sixty or a hundred countries he'd been to. I was sure he’d set foot on all seven continents. </p><p>I took a full sip, letting it settle on my tongue for a long moment. The wine was intoxicating in more ways than one. Dark notes of something smokey and jammy and heady fell down the back of my throat, sending a tingle through my veins and heating me upon contact. It was only my first, and I wondered what I’d be feeling after a glass, or the whole bottle, with William. </p><p>“Although it must be difficult, I’d imagine, being away from your family and obligations back home,” he said as he took a pull from his own wine. “I’ve had my assistant phone the airline, and there is some possibility Flight 48 will be rescheduled tomorrow afternoon, which is good news for my team that is working on our closing there, and good news of course for you. It just depends on if this storm pushes north or decides to linger. It seems our fates are entirely up to mother nature now.” </p><p>Thankfully William had reminded me of my family, or lack thereof. Now was my opportunity to tell him I didn’t have any kids, or husbands for that matter, and I swallowed another gulp of wine a little too quickly to ease my nerves before I told him. But before I could get out another word, a drop-dead gorgeous woman slinked up between us, propping both her perfectly manicured hands on the leather back of his barstool. Her dark red lips curled into a gleaming smile, in brilliant contrast to her coffee-colored complexion. I took another sip out of pure annoyance. It was like an extra from a Robert Palmer Music video had magically appeared behind his chair.</p><p>“I’ve been looking for you,” she said coyly, cocking her head full of flawlessly placed black curls and fluttering the longest fake lashes I’d ever seen. </p><p>“Your room is finally ready, Sir,” she said in an accent with a slight hint of french. Maybe she was from the Cote D'Ivoire, I wondered. And she passed him a little cardstock key jacket with <em> Hiddleston Elite </em>boldly monogrammed on the paper. He was clearly some sort of bigwig with the company, that was obvious. I guessed they didn’t send supermodels to fetch every corporate guest.</p><p>“Ahh, perfect. Marianna,” William replied warmly, taking in another sip of his wine. “Marianna, see to it that Jerome puts Mrs. Taylor’s bottle, and anything else she requires from the bar on my tab.”</p><p>He unfolded himself from the barstool, throwing on his charcoal cashmere coat and pulling up the handle of his sleek suitcase in one seamless movement. “Mrs. Taylor, I hope you enjoy the wine and your stay here tonight. And I’ll have my assistant connect you to one of our designers next week,” He said with a half-smile, before following Marianna and her long legs towards the golden bank of elevators at the back of the lobby. </p><p>I groaned, noticing for the first time how strong the woman on the other side of William's perfume was. She smelled like she’d been dunked in a pool of Chanel No. 5. No, with him going up to his room, there was no reason to sit alone at the bar. I’d take the rest of the bottle with me, I decided, and I poured what was left of his wine in my glass. I slumped, and let my spine rest against the velvet backing. I’d miserably failed. I’d crashed and burned. I hadn’t told him I wasn’t a mother or a wife. He’d even called me Mrs. Taylor when he’d left with that Barbie. But, as I took another slow sip, something hopefully fluttered in my chest. I realized I’d succeeded in one aspect. My business card was now safely stowed in his suit jacket pocket. If he really did plan on giving it to someone in his design department, it might not be the last chance I’d get to talk to him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Glitches</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Since things have died down at reception, you must go on break," I told Marianna as she accompanied me to the elevator bank. Her shapely legs were damn near as long as mine, and she was one of the few women who could match me in pace, even in high heels.</p><p>"Oh, I couldn't, sir. With this place fully booked and the software issues we've been running into, I have no time to spare. Two rooms were double booked from this glitch and I'm still working on sorting that out. I'll need to be at the front desk all night, I'm afraid."</p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>"I wasn't making a suggestion; that's an order. Better to pause now and charge your batteries. If you don't stop for a breather, I suspect you'll leave at four a.m. when your shift is over without having taken one at all. I don't want you falling asleep on the train and ending up in South Mymms. Just go sit down for a spell and have an espresso."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Alright, Mr. Hiddleston. As you wish," she conceded with a breathy sigh as she pushed the UP button for me. "But please ring if you should need anything or if the room is not to your liking. I don't think they'll be any availability switch since we are fully booked, but I'll do my best to ensure that you're as comfortable as possible."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Quite sure you will, Marianna. And I can't imagine they'll be something unpleasant about my suite, except that god awful decor. No way to correct that now, unless you've a wrecking ball and painting crew stowed away on retainer."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The gleaming doors opened. I stepped on, leaving her behind as I pushed the old brass button to the fourteenth floor. This lift was original to the building, pre-war, done in gold and black iron that looked like vines of ivy intersection through fretwork like a gilded birdcage. It was a snug squeeze even for me with only my slim suitcase. Obviously the thing had been designed in some bygone time when people required less room and presumably took up less space as well. Once I was safely transferred to the top of the building, I moved down the plush carpeted corridor and slipped my keycard in the substantial mahogany door at the end of the hall. I began turning on switches, which had no rhyme or reason to what light they might control. The first I flipped turned on an electric fireplace in the corner, illuminating the place with a roaring orange artificial glow.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Once fully bathed in light, the Wexcroft Suite was as nauseating as I remembered. Modernist geometric carpets in teals and purples stretched to the full pane windows, completely distracting from an otherwise lovely view overlooking a snow-draped Hyde Park. Two sizable mismatched floral sectionals were in some sort of sunken sitting area. They were positioned beneath a chrome lamp that resembled Sputnik more than a lighting fixture. The whole effect was like an outlandish living room from a sixties sitcom. I made a mental note never to allow Johnathan Adler within a hundred meters of a suite at one of my hotels. His designs were entirely too whimsical for my liking and off-key from the rest of the rooms.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>But, the suite did have the necessities I'd require for one night. A King size bed swallowed most of the master with the peacock headboard taking up the majority of the wall. The bath was thankfully far less offensive to my eyes. Hexagon hunter green and black marble tiles slunk up the wall like they belonged in some throne room for an ancient Norse god. It was all very dark and brooding and suited my mood to a T. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Staring at that shower triggered my muscles to unwind from the mere thought alone. But, I did have one action item I wanted to sort out before I hopped in. Tessa's business card was burning a hole in my pocket, and I needed to give our lead designer, Dominic Radcliff, a call before it got too late. He worked out of the London office, so I assumed in this snowstorm that he might turn in early. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>I fished the card out from my jacket, staring at her name styled in a delicate serif font on thin cardstock. Tessa Taylor. It suited her quite well while rolling off the tongue without effort. Terribly feminine, yet conveying some strength to it. Softness with a bit of backbone, I thought, almost speaking each syllable aloud. I reflected back on my time at Eton, being forced to read Tess of the D'urbervilles and writing a term paper on that old book. I didn't remember much, except the titular character had been very buxom. Yes, Tessa Taylor would have made a stunning milkmaid. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Christs sakes," I mumbled. I was ridiculous. This was a business introduction between Tessa and my lead designer, and nothing more. I was merely passing along her information. What was it she'd said? It was the least I could do after elbowing her down the jetbridge. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>I dialed Dominic's cell, and he picked up after a few rings. We didn't have many interactions, which wasn't deliberate. I tended to stay squarely in my own lane, leaving creative decisions to those who were actually creative, but I never avoided a meeting with him when requested. He was clever. Talented to boot. And had a presence that had elevated him to the department's head in a matter of months instead of years.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Dominic, glad I've caught you," I said as he answered. His voice was garbled, hardly intelligible over the thumping bass and blasting music. It sounded like he'd taken my call from inside Studio 54.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Apologies, Sir, just let me step out. My boyfriend and I are trying a new Loung nearby, and it's rather loud."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Oh, that's quite alright. Sorry for the call past the dinner hour and during a bloody blizzard, but I wanted to touch base before I forget. I've just emailed you the contact of a woman with Watson &amp; Wyatt Textiles out of Chicago. She's a designer. Head Textile Designer, actually, but she is also involved somewhat in the business development side. Please set up a meeting about using her firm exclusively for this new remodel we'll be starting on the legacy properties in Q2. I don't believe we've lined out our contractors yet, but if we have, scrap whoever we've got and go with her."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Well, certainly, Mr. Hiddleston. I don't think that should be a problem. I haven't begun reaching out to vendors, and we're just starting mock-ups for those restorations."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Excellent, Dominic. Maybe we can look into using them for everything going forward. Might be a time to shift away from our usual companies and bring in some new blood,"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Well, that is...interesting. Not a problem, but…," Dominic hesitated, and the pregnant pause on the other line forced me to interject.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Get out with it, Dominic," I said as I used two fingers to loosen my tie. The feeling was euphoric whenever my tie was removed for the day. It made me question why I even bothered with such formalities at all once if it was off and tossed on the crisp duvet. But that was a slippery slope. First no tie to work, then not wearing a jacket, followed by what? Rubber flip flops in the office? No, far better to wear the whole bloody ensemble lest I fall into bad and unshakable habits.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"What if their costs are not as competitive as our usual vendors? I don't want us to be paying twice as much for half the product."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Price was always my bottom line. Dominic knew me well to have brought it up. Ordinarily, it was the driving factor in most decisions I made for the Hiddleston Hospitality Group. But, as I thought back on Tessa and stared down at that thin business card in my hand, something far more persuasive than dollars and pounds coerced me. She'd shown such initiative once she'd found out I was with Hiddleston. Obviously, she didn't know just how involved I was, but nevertheless, it took some gumption to pipe up and present me her card at all. What was the difference between eighty thousand pounds worth of curtains or a hundred? I'd give her my business even if the cost were slightly more. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Make it work, Dominic. And if I need to be brought in for discussions on price, I certainly can make myself available for her. She seemed very keen on new business. I don't think I'll have any difficulties ironing out the particulars or working with Tessa," I said before we exchanged goodbyes, and I hung up.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Working with Tessa.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Now that thought did send some twist of enthusiasm through my chest, as I reminisced back on that constrained button I'd been so mesmerized by on her blouse. I pictured her in some proper business attire, maybe a pinstripe pencil skirt with that shirt and stiletto red-bottomed heels. Or even those too tall boots would look decent paired with anything other than blue jeans and a wintertime coat. But, the jeans had fit her quite well, the more I remembered them. They'd drawn in high at her waist and stretched around those hips like they'd been painted on. Why, I wondered if she'd had anything on underneath them. Certainly not traditional briefs or boyshorts as those would have left a visible line. Maybe a thong?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Bloody hell," I said aloud. Feeling my cock harden and strain against my slacks from the image of her in nothing but her skivvies. The woman had two small children and was more than likely married. And if we were to be working for my company as a contractor, she'd have crossed the same threshold as Marianna or anyone on my staff. Totally off-limits. No, there was no reason to allow my fantasies to list towards that woman, no matter how alluring she was.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>More troubling was how easy it was to think about another woman. Too easy, really. At that moment, Vivian wasn't in the picture; it felt like she had run two miles out of the frame. But, for all technical purposes, I was still engaged. Vivian wore my mother's ring or had it tucked away in a jewelry safe somewhere. It did no good, prolonging the unavoidable. I had to cut her off entirely. I wanted to do it in person, out of courtesy. But, alone in my suite, splaying my dark hair through my hands, I decided my courtesy was no longer something she deserved after so many indiscretions and betrayals. I dialed her number, promptly getting her voicemail.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"It's me. We need to have a conversation, and I believe you know what that conversation is about. I'd prefer to do it face to face, and the sooner the better. Phone when you can."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She was presumably out at a bar with friends she barely knew the first names of or ordering bottle service at some club near our Paris apartment. Not really that it was our apartment – she'd furnished the place with my money, and I'd merely left a few suits and toiletries there. All my personal or sentimental effects were still at my family home outside Bath. My schedule didn't permit me to spend more than a handful of nights sequentially at "home" with Vivian. That place felt as much like my residence as any of my thirty-two hotels did. Come to think of it, this abominable Wexcroft suite with its peacock feathers and shag carpeting was more my home than that flat. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>I unbuttoned my starched shirt and stripped myself out of my socks and belt and trousers, leaving a trail of clothing items along the glassy floors as I moved. The bathroom held the sort of shower you couldn't turn on before you stepped inside. The complicated nobs and levels were recessed and set so far back behind the glass it required full entry to get the thing started. My bare feet padded across the cold stones, and my body tensed as I turned on the water. Powerful jets cascaded from two polished bronze waterfall heads above. Thankfully, the water was instant and piped from a heated tank. My body adjusted to the tumbling warmth on contact, and I rolled my shoulders, first forwards, then back. I felt my muscles relaxing, despite the day I'd had, which was anything but. I allowed myself to suck in the steam, realizing I'd been holding my breath for some time.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>My thoughts bounced around like a drop of oil on a hot skillet. But I couldn't focus on a damn one of them without returning back to Tessa. I poured out a generous bead of shampoo, lathering it into my scalp as I wondered just what room she was in. Hopefully, she had a view of the snow-covered Park and not a brick wall. I could find out by logging into our system from my laptop, but that seemed like a massive invasion of privacy. Although, having some idea what the room was in would help me visualize just what she was up to. The possibilities ran through my mind - if she was resting idly on a king-size bed in silk pajamas or if she slept in nothing at all. Maybe she'd opted for a hot shower and had stripped down, as I had, and was letting the warm hot of water wash down that tangle of brown hair and her bare breasts and hardened nipples. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"What the hell?!" A woman's voice called over the steam and pounding beads of my shower.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Tessa was doing none of those things, I realized. She was standing outside my bloody bathroom. That sharp American accent shot off the tiles, reverberating off the marbled bath, echoing like she'd said it more than once. I turned to the doorframe gripping a trim piece of tile for stability and to keep myself from slipping to my death. I saw through the steam and soap that black coat dart out of sight in a flash. It was difficult to make a damned thing because the shampoo suds were stinging my eyes like some sort of pepper spray.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I heard muffled shouts of apology over the pouring shower, and something crashed in the living area. I grabbed a towel as I hastily turned off the nozzles and rubbed as much shampoo off as I could before I wrapped myself in a white terry cloth robe and half jogged out of the master. There she stood, red-faced and moving quickly, gripping her worn-out suitcase and the corked bottle of wine as she charged out. A lime green vase had been knocked off the side table in the commotion and lay in shards on the hideous carpeting. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Stop, Tessa," I said out of wind. My breathlessness wasn't from being out of shape. No, I ran every morning. I was flustered. "What the bloody hell is going on here? How did you get the key to my room?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Your room?! I thought this was my room! My key says Wexcroft Suite. Fourteenth Floor. I had no idea you'd be in here too!"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She'd yanked on the heavy brass handle and taken a step into the hallway before I could assemble my thoughts enough to speak. I put my hands up, a sign of docility, urging her to halt as I went on, "Wait a moment. Please, come back in." I was keenly aware of the dripping shampoo and warm water flowing to the carpet and felt it pooling down my shins and ankles. No matter, I reasoned. After this disaster, I'd had enough of this room. Jonathan Adler be damned. I'd have it redesigned in a week's time. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I've really pissed you off. I can see it in your face. I need to get out of here."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I'm not upset with you. I've shampoo in my eyes and it's stinging like the Dickens. Just hold on a minute– let me ring Marianna and get this sorted. I'm positive she's slipped up and given one of us the wrong key by mistake. Let me, uh, change into something more appropriate. Don't go anywhere."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I didn't intend to slam the door, but I did when I marched back to my bedroom, the crack of the wooden door as it hit the trim vibrated up the walls in the master. I worried for a split second that an atrocious mirror in the shape of cat-eyed sunglasses over the dresser might break apart from the force and cascade down in a shimmering frenzy as the vase had.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Luckily, Marianna picked up on the first ring when I dialed 0 for reception, and what poured from my mouth was a raging river of expletives I knew I'd regret the second I was off the line. I wasn't angry at her, no, I'd have to make that clear when she came upstairs. I was exceedingly furious at the calamity of errors that had brought us here. For Tessa to walk in on me as she had was unacceptable. Not only had my shower been ruined, but somehow my ego was damaged too. It was terribly awkward. Not that I was ashamed of my body, actually it was quite the opposite. My athleticism was something I'd always taken great pride in. Just the whole mess was so intensely embarrassing. And now I had to go out and speak to this woman after she'd seen me stark naked. She was probably turning as bright a shade of red as I was.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>After I'd toweled off and thrown on my slacks and shirt and stepped into the living room, I found Tessa was still there. In fact, it looked like she was making herself at home, as she'd found the wine glasses on the wet bar and had emptied a healthy pour of the bottle I'd ordered downstairs for herself.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I'm so sorry, William," she said after she took a gulp, "I had no idea this wasn't the right room. It's the key the red-haired girl downstairs gave me, and I got up here, and I heard the shower going, and the lights were on, and I should have turned around when I saw the tie on the bed--"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I cut her off. The poor thing was on a ramble, no doubt as unhinged by all this as I. "Please, don't apologize to me. You've done nothing wrong. If anything, I should be apologizing to you. We've had some serious booking glitch. It's not your fault. It's mine."</p>
</div><div>
  <p><em>Extreme ownership</em>, I thought, as I pushed my fingers through my dripping hair and felt my wet skin sticking to my dress shirt. Christ, I should have dried off more thoroughly. I probably looked as though I was in some wet t-shirt contest.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Just then, a vigorous knock at the door shook the suite. I marched past Tessa, yanking it open for Marianna to slip inside. She looked like a lamb at the slaughterhouse as she attempted to explain the mishaps that had let us to this junction. The glitches she'd been dealing with all night had resulted in the Wexcroft Suite, and several others, being checked in more than once. We weren't the only angry guests she was dealing with, and I felt a pang of remorse for giving her so much lip on the phone.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Marianna, I'm sorry I was cross. This isn't your fault - this is the fault of this bloody software and Beverly with IT. We'll get it righted out. But you've other guests to deal with tonight, so I won't monopolize any more of your time. But please tell me there is another room for me to move to so Mrs. Taylor can get some rest and I can get out of her hair?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Well, that is the other problem, sir," She stared past her dark false lashes at some slight chip on the marble foyer floor, unable to meet my gaze. "With several rooms double booked, we don't have any rooms at the moment. Also, I've made calls to the six other Hiddleston properties in London and the vicinity, and it seems they're booked as well from the storm and this glitch. I am waiting to hear back from a Bed and Breakfast I found online near Gatwick Airport that shows availability, but that seems unlikely too."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>My mind raced fast and quick. Sure, I had friends I could reach out to for a bed in a pinch. My cousin Thurman was only several blocks east of the Park in a walkup with his wife and brood of bratty children. But, it was nearing nine o'clock. I was drained, and this suite did have two segregated ensuite bedrooms. Was it completely out of the question for us to stay together?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"You take the master. I'll take the smaller one," Tessa cut through my internal monolog as she motioned towards the bedroom door behind her. "I'm exhausted, and I'm sure you are too. It's just for one night, and I can sleep anywhere for one night."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Marianna looked between Tessa and me as though she was so shaken by the impropriety of the suggestion she might clutch her pearls and faint. But, there didn't have to be anything improper about it. True, each suite had its own private bath, not to mention interior locks. Tessa could shove a dresser in front of the door if she feared me breaking it down in the night. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Are you positive, Tessa? I've family or friends I can stay with. I don't want this to be uncomfortable for you."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She bit into that red lip, and I damn near lost my senses from it. She sighed as she propped her hands on her hips and went on, "<em>Uncomfortable</em>? Five minutes ago I walked in on you completely naked in the shower. I don't think things can get any more <em>uncomfortable</em> from here."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Quite right," I said. Now biting my own lip to keep myself from grinning like an idiot. </p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Steam and More Steam</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> “Is there any wine left for me? Or have you polished it all off like some kind of wino,” William teased as he moved towards the bar by the foyer. His broad back was to me now, and a wet spot clung to his white dress shirt between his shoulder blades. The poor guy hadn’t even had time to towel off after I'd walked in on him and ruined his shower.</p><p>“Yeah, there is plenty left. Please help yourself to as much as you want.” My voice was a tad bit too high in pitch as I said the words. And my heart was beating so fast, I worried he’d detect my racing pulse from across the living room. </p><p>“Well, I may have one glass. I’m worried after all that...excitement, I'm too riled up to go to bed just yet. Apologies again. I’m terribly embarrassed still you had to walk in on me.”</p><p>“Oh, don't apologize. And I couldn’t agree more. I'm just as riled up as you are,” I said, crossing over the carpet and down two steps into some sort of sunken sofa situation. Two wildly colorful floral sectionals were opposite each other with a lacquered blue table in between. Any adjectives I tried to come up with couldn’t really do the room justice, since I’d been at an extended stay outside Geneva for the past five days. That had been decent, but this was decadent. Green marble lined the double doors of the foyer. A sparkling chrome light fixture - like some Russian satellite hovered over all the mod decor. Usually, less is more, but in the Wexcroft Suite, more was more, I thought as I stared out at a sumptuous living room swimming in vibrant colors, and complete with a dining room table that could comfortably seat my entire family for a Thanksgiving feast. Floor to ceiling double-paned windows reached up as the backdrop to it all, the city sparkling against the fog of low lying clouds and crystal-like snowfall floating fast and heavy. It was difficult to tell where the clouds started and the snow-covered park began.</p><p>I propped myself in the plush cushions, situating my backside against the arm and my legs underneath me. I decided my best bet was to tread carefully with my conversation. I’d crossed some sort of invisible boundary downstairs, giving William my business card when he worked for a company I desperately wanted to form a business relationship with. And now, I'd blurred the lines even more after I'd stumbled in on him naked as a blue jay in the shower. No, I needed to cool my jets. I had to keep things as PG as possible from here on out.</p><p>“So, I have to ask you something, Tessa. It’s the elephant in the room, really, and I just need to get a straight answer.”</p><p>My pulse raced, as did my mind, as I imagined what he might be asking. I stiffened, remembering my posture as I spoke, “Ask away. I try to be an open book." My words had come out with hesitation. I set my wine glass on the coffee table and rested my palms on my thighs to prepare myself for the Spanish Inquisition.</p><p>He took a breath, cocking his head towards me as he draped his arm over the back of his sectional, “What on earth is going on with your mismatched socks?” </p><p>I laughed, unfolding myself from the sofa and I stuck both legs in the air, wiggling my tiny feet as I did to display them more prominently for him.</p><p>“Oh gosh, I didn’t think anyone but the Security guys at the airport would see my feet today. I couldn’t find the other striped sock, or the matching candy corn one this morning. They are probably shoved somewhere in the dark recesses of my suitcase, so I had to make due.” I tucked one leg under my backside and picked up my wine again for a sip. “The candy corn socks, those were from my niece and nephew. They got me a cute little Halloween basket this year when I went trick-or-treating with them. And when I say they got it for me, I really mean my sister got it for me. They’re too little to be buying anything.” It was finally my chance to explain the children he’d assumed were mine really weren’t, and I tilted up my phone and turned my background towards him. It was the same boy and girl, and yellow dog, he’d probably seen in the line at Heathrow. </p><p>“So, you are their aunt and not their mother? Well, aren’t they adorable!” He said, with a tad bit too much enthusiasm I picked up on. </p><p>My breath hitched slightly in my throat. William now knew I wasn’t their mom. What this changed, well, I wasn’t entirely sure. I was still a stranger who’d persuaded him to stay the night with me because of a glitch in his booking system. </p><p>“They’re the best. I’m so lucky to be their aunt.” I shifted my gaze, now looking out again over the snow. It was gorgeous, and my breathing calmed from the sight of the view alone. I was used to staying in hotels that looked out over parking garages or brick walls. This was like some Joseph Farquharson painting. </p><p>“Sorry, I’m easily distracted by this weather. I love seeing snow. I didn’t grow up in places where we saw it very often,” I said as I continued to stare out. The flakes were really coming down, like they were being released from one of those confetti nets at a club on New Year’s Eve. It was falling wide and thick, swirling just behind the panes, clumping on bare branches in the foggy darkness of the park, and completely obscuring the sidewalks below. </p><p>“So I take it you didn’t grow up in Chicago then? A lot of lake effect snow there, as I understand.”</p><p>“Oh no, I’m originally from Texas. From a town I’m sure you’ve never heard of.” I replied as I sank back in the down-filled cushions, moving my fingers across the dense damask weave. God, the textiles in this room were magnificent. Vibrant colors splashed on every surface, like some mod sixties sitcom set. </p><p>“Texas?” William asked more as an accusation than a question. His inky brows dipped low on his wrinkling forehead as he eyed me with obvious suspicion. “How can you possibly be from Texas without an accent?” </p><p>“Not everyone from Texas automatically has one, William. My parents were both from California originally, so I guess I missed out on that Texas drawl. But sometimes it comes out, especially if I’ve been drinking. Or if I’m really angry.”</p><p>“You’ve given away your tell. I’ll have to get you drunk, or mad, or both so I can hear it.” He moved in a few steps from the wet bar to the sectional opposite to mine, setting his wine glass and the whole bottle on the table between as he sunk down. </p><p>“So what part of the Lone Star State do you hail from? That place is so massive, I have to admit I’m a bit foggy on the geography but I know the basic landmarks. 72 Ounce Steaks in Amarillo, the Dallas Cowboys in...Dallas presumably, Austin is the Capitol, and Houston Astros in Houston?”</p><p>“Actually the Dallas Cowboys play in Arlington, but you're right on everything else. My family bounced around a lot when I was little. My dad was in sales. Pipe equipment for drilling, cotton strippers, or irrigation systems for a while. You name it, he’d sell it. We were in Eastland—that’s East of Dallas—long enough for my sister and I to go to high school and graduate. But I was born in Muleshoe, east of Clovis, New Mexico.”</p><p>“Your birthplace is named after a shoe for a mule?”</p><p>“You make it sound so much worse when you put it like that,” I said before I took a long sip.  </p><p>“Christ, you really are some Annie Oakley, aren’t you?” His eyebrows darted up as he stared at me, with a dousing of approval on his face that made my stomach twist like a sailors knot. “Admit it, you’ve a buckskin jacket and a cowboy’s hat in that carry on of yours.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t go that far. But I do know how to ride a horse and I’m a decent shot.”</p><p>“Well, we’ve that in common. I grew up around horses and shooting with my father. I’m still forced to participate when I go for a visit. He’s become a real sportsman since he retired. Between the rounds of golf, the pheasant hunts, and trips abroad with wife number five I sometimes wonder if his schedule is more demanding than my own.”</p><p>“Sounds like my dad. He moved to this swanky retirement community in Florida two years ago. When I go see him, it’s like every day is a vacation. They’ve got cooking classes, yoga, and this massive pool with black and white striped cabanas that make you think you’re in Beverly Hills. And he's probably dated every woman in his condo, so he's living it up.”</p><p>“Lucky man,” William said as he set his wine glass with a clink back on the coffee table between us. “So what of your mother? Is she still in <em>Donkeyboot</em>?”</p><p>“<em>Muleshoe</em>,” I corrected. “And no. She actually passed away the summer before I started college. It was a progressive form of brain cancer.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Tessa. I shouldn’t have pried.”</p><p>“Oh don’t apologize, I don’t mind talking about it. Everything happened so quickly – which was a good thing. She didn’t have to suffer or live like that for very long. When we knew she didn’t have much time left, Dad rented this big house in the Keys for a few weeks and she passed away in her sleep. My sister, my aunt, and two uncles, and some of the cousins came down to stay as long as they could, along with her two best friends who were there the whole time. It was sort of a party having everyone she loved coming to stay.</p><p>“Mom had this really dry sense of humor. I remember we were all sitting outside on the deck, watching the waves and the gulls swooping down on little crabs. The sun was begging to set, and it just felt poignant and emotional all the sudden, which was something she couldn’t stand. She didn’t want sympathy or tears or any of that sappy stuff. One of my younger cousins, his name’s Casey, he had a green plastic pale he’d been using to make sand castles, and Mom made some joke about how that was THE bucket she was going to kick. I’m not good at telling jokes like she was, but we all lost it laughing.” I took a pull from my wine, suddenly fighting of the twinge of bubbling emotion collecting in my chest. “That’s the way I want to go – no regrets and surrounded by family. I can’t think of anything better than that.”</p><p>“No,” William said, as his eyes locked onto mine. “I can’t think of anything better either. She sounds like she was an incredible woman.” He paused, and I could see the thoughts rolling in his mind before he set his blue eyes on me again and continued, “Just like you are, Tessa.”   </p><p>The mood was suddenly too serious. I'd taken things from light to dark, but I couldn’t break eye contact, those cobalt eyes, full of intensity shifting in their deep blue depths. They felt tethered to mine, bound by some invisible string. I wondered if I was seeing William for the first time. It was not the snobbish jerk I’d met on the plane, but this sensitive empathetic person whose presence I felt completely unnerved by. Something ached deep in my core, down in my stomach, as I stared at him, and in that instant, I wanted him to kiss me.</p><p>It happened so fast. He moved in a few lengthy strides, off his end of the sectional, around the table, until he’d settled into the cushion next to mine. Before I even could brace myself for it the fingers of his right hand were lightly gripping at the nape of my neck, having slipped through my tangled hair without effort. His other hand cupped my face, warm and solid and tender all at once. I stared into eyes as bright and bold as a Carribean inlet. Searing heat prickled across my goosebumped flesh like wildfire, as I felt completely enveloped by him.</p><p>“I won’t go into things, but this is very complicated for me, Tessa,” William said barely above a whisper. “Principally, you’re a guest of this hotel, and most likely a business colleague after next week when my lead designer calls you. Tell me to stop and I will. Tell me to let go, and I’ll tread off to bed without another word.” It was a command like he needed me to be the one to end it. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Whatever was between us, it was white-hot and burning. It was stabbing and sharp and pleasant all at the same time. I didn’t have the desire or the words to tell him no.</p><p>The fingers that had been on my cheek moved, migrating with metered urgency under my jaw, and grazed my neck before his calloused thumb traced a soft crescent around my lower lip, pressing into the fullest part of my pout. My lips were so chapped from traveling, and probably stained from the lipstick I’d hastily applied at the train station, and now the tannins of the wine, but William kissed me anyway. </p><p>He didn’t ask my permission to do it, he didn’t have to, I drove my body towards him, closing what little distance was between us as I settled my hands around his neck, stroking the damp dark hair and his thick neck. His lips were soft but strong, and I opened my mouth to him as his tongue thrust gently against my own, swirling and working against mine in a perfect rhythm we quickly found together. It was an ebb and a flow. We were pushing and pulling. He was consuming my senses and wiping away my every thought like a dry eraser to a whiteboard. </p><p>He tasted like the bold Pinot Noir we’d been drinking, and I drank him in, as I filled my lungs with his scent - citrus and something strangely woodsy, like juniper or pine. A soft groan, so gravely and hoarse I sensed it more in my lips than heard it, reverberated from his throat. I was unraveling from it all. My hands quivered, and moved from the smooth sable hair to the nape of his neck, down his starched collar to the lean muscles of his chest and shoulders, his skin still slightly damp from the shower I’d ruined.</p><p>His kiss was strangely familiar, but entirely new all at once. It felt like the cure to some disease I’d just been diagnosed with, and it was so unlike any first kiss I’d shared before. My breathing quickened, matching a heartbeat that raced to every part of me. A steady pulse, slow and randomly felt at first, was growing at that most delicate place. It pulsated and picked up, as I shifted and threw one leg over his thigh to feel him against my throbbing clit.</p><p>His thigh was muscular, like his whole body, which was powerful even under the delicate weave of his wool slacks, and I could detect the subtle warmth even through the fabric folds that rested between us. I traced my hands and memorized the delineation of muscle that spread from his abdomen past his belt and lower into a prominent V shape towards his groin. I was gentle in my touch, barely applying any pressure as my small palm ran against the full and stiffening length of his erection. He was incredibly hard. So thick and long in my fingers, my breath hooked in my throat. I imagined the tip of him, firmly thrusting into my most sensitive place. I wanted him, and I knew he wanted me. His sounds, God, they got louder. The more I pushed my palm against him, the more gravely his voice became. His fingers were furious now, hastily unfastening the buttons on my blouse that was a size too small. Slipping past the silk, and brushing off my bra straps.</p><p>“Christ, you're absolutely gorgeous.” He whispered as he pulled away from my lips just long enough to snake his eyes down the champagne-colored lace of my bra, also a bit too tight. But I could tell from the urgency in his fingers as he gripped my spilling cleavage he liked what he saw and felt. His hands pushed under one of the cups, pulling down the delicate lace and exposing my hardening nipple. His thumb grazed it, then tugged with some firmness as he took it between his forefinger and thumb and leaned in to wrap it in the warmth of his mouth. I let out a cry from the sensation of it all, splaying his wet hair through my hands as I held on for dear life. “God, yes,” was all I could get out, as he sucked and tugged on my breast with the heat of his kiss. My mind was scrambling, from the pleasure of his body against me, the pain as he playfully took my nipple between his teeth, and the uncertainty of what this was. I barely knew him, actually didn’t even know his last name. He’d said things were complicated, but what exactly did complicated mean? And, what if I did have to work with him? How confusing would things be then? </p><p>
  <em> BZZZZZ BZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZ BZZZZZZ BZZZZZZ</em>
</p><p>Like some sort of fire alarm, my phone on the coffee table, and his in his pocket, along with my iPad in my bag began vibrating in harmony, cutting through my tumbling thoughts. We both froze. He was hesitant to pull apart, groaning as he did. But in truth, I was thankful for the distraction and interruption. I didn’t know what was happening - if I was really ready to sleep with a stranger. I needed a second to think through this. To try and figure this out. </p><p>“I believe it can wait, Tessa,” he growled, pushing his sharp jaw past my tangled hair, against the curve of my neck and planting delicate kisses down my collar bone. </p><p>“Let me just check my phone,” I said in a murmur, standing on wobbly feet, my balance completely shot from our sudden make out session. “It could be about the flight.”</p><p>“Quite right,” he said in a grumble, adjusting his visible erection plainly with one hand, and fishing his phone from his back pocket with another. </p><p>I had several text messages, like when my flight was canceled, dinging through at once. It seemed I’d been booked on a flight out mid-morning, at 10:35 a.m. It should have been a good thing. The news ought to have filled me with some relief since I’d be back in Chicago and able to report to Candice about my Geneva trip. But , strangely, all I could feel was a churning sense of dread. Was I ready to go back to the real world? This snowy London suite, with William and the orange glow of the fireplace and the wine, felt so much better than my own tiny apartment off Michigan Avenue. I didn't know if I wanted to leave tomorrow, or maybe ever. </p><p>“Have you been booked as well?” he asked, leaning forward to his wine glass to top off mine, and his own, to the brim with a steady trickle .</p><p>“I guess so. It looks like I'm on Flight 805. Seat 15C. Leaving at 10:35," I said as I brushed my hair behind my shoulder. It was ever more tangled after William had had his hands roaming and combing through it like a teasing brush. </p><p>“Well, that's wonderful news. I’m on the same flight. But, Business Class of course. Seat 2A,” he extended a large hand, stroking it down my waist and gripping my thigh. “But, let’s see if I can’t upgrade you,” he said teasing me, before he pulled me to him, pressing kisses down my neck and between my cleavage. And he gripped my hips, tugging me firmly back on the sofa where I belonged.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Change of Plans</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>My sweaty palm slammed the STOP button on the treadmill, cutting my run short by a good ten minutes and more than a mile. I was totally and utterly exhausted. Not so much in a physical sense, but mentally from the night prior. Thoughts surged and churned inside my mind like some North Atlantic Sea, and it was only seven in the morning. Not a good start. I propped my hands on the bars for support as the rubber belt came to an abrupt halt. I leaned over the blinking screen to catch breaths that arrived in unmetered pants and in laborious inhalations. I tried to settle my heart rate, concentrating instead on the floor to ceiling windows that lined the gym. They were thick but still radiated bitter cold from the glass. Tessa and I would take a car to the train station, I decided. I wouldn’t subject the poor girl to a snowy trudge to Paddington with our luggage even if we were only blocks away.</p><p>The gym was empty, and eerily quiet without the panting of other runners or the grunts and clanking metal of men lifting weights. No one else has opted to work out on such a morning, which was an observation that served to highlight my own stupidity and not the lack of athleticism of the other guests. I had no business being out of bed at such an hour during a bloody blizzard, especially when that girl was sleeping up in my room. I ought to have still been pressed against Tessa, warm and sated beneath the thick down of the duvet, feeling her body curved against mine like we were two spoons in a drawer. Only I had been fool enough to leave her sleeping soundly in the locks of a wintry storm. </p><p>Nothing had happened between us. I should clarify, it wasn't <em>exactly</em> nothing. We’d kissed passionately, and my hands and mouth had slipped down against that creamy blouse, exposing her breasts that were just as achingly beautiful as I’d suspected. I could still almost feel the way her nipples had hardened around my tongue when I’d coaxed them. They'd seemed like pearls between the gentle tug of my teeth.</p><p>But, as much as I’d wanted to take her, it had been as though some invisible barrier prevented me from ripping off the leggings she'd changed into before bed. I felt certain if I’d tried to remove them, that she wouldn’t have stopped me. She’d have peeled off my joggers in response. We had kissed in the night, like teenagers stopping to talk or have a drink, and starting again, and I’d asked her to sleep in the master with me, making promises and crossing myself in jest to remain a gentleman, and we’d necked until we’d both drifted into a sound sleep. I was keenly aware she’d wanted to take things…further. The little sounds and breathy moans she’d made and the way her nails had splayed through my hair had told me as much. But I simply couldn’t let our relationship drift to a sexual nature just yet. After all, we’d only met the day before. And something about her, although no rational part of my brain could identify why, made me wonder if this was in fact more a marathon than a sprint. Was she the sort of woman I’d want more than just a casual shag with?</p><p>“Christ,” I mumbled to myself, “what the hell is wrong with you, Hiddleston?”</p><p>I showered in the gym dressing room, letting the warm water pool down my body for far longer than I should and wash away the sweat and salt from my five miles on the treadmill. What was it about showers that seemed to relax me as nothing could? My hand drifted, running across my body, down the lean muscles of my abdomen, and towards a place that was suddenly stiff as iron from remembering the feeling of Tessa against me. I let my hand glide casually across my length, hardening completely after only a few languid strokes. I wanted to feel some release. I needed to un-valve the pressure. And memories of her lips that were somehow soft and chapped all at the same time flooded through my cognizance like a swollen tide.</p><p>She’d been flushed beneath my touch, hot against my kisses. Her tongue had circled and tenderly toyed with mine, and I wondered what that tongue might feel like against the head of my cock while I gripped that tangle of dark hair for purchase. I propped one hand against the stone of the shower as leverage and I increased my speed as I gripped myself harder. It would be quick, at this rate, as I was caught up in a heady haze, imagining what it would have been like to press myself into Tessa's warm folds. How wet and tight she might have been and how easily I’d have slipped inside her walls as her hips titled into mine. Those thighs would have squeezed against me, her mouth sucking at the thin skin along my collar bone, and those breathy moans would have only grown louder the farther I’d pushed.</p><p>I felt the seconds slow and time rolled to a stop as I grew closer to climax. I shut my lids firmly and gripped myself in a steady rhythm until I came hard in my hand, tightening my fingers with every thrust. My breath caught in my throat, my body shuddered, and the slightest hint of a flush burned across my cheeks. Burgeoning pleasure washed over me in steady waves. I wondered if simply fantasizing about Tessa in a shower proved so powerful for me, what coming inside her might be like. I felt no guilt, for playing out this fantasy, but I did feel guilt on another front. Vivian.</p><p>No, I didn’t owe that woman any sympathy. For all intents and purposes, we’d been finished for months and hadn't even spoken in weeks. I’d been aware of a few dalliances she’d had over the years, although truth be told I wasn’t terribly bothered by them. Occasional dinners with her ex-boyfriends where she returned late and rather disheveled, or work trips when I didn’t hear a word from her until her plane touched the ground. Those situations hadn’t prompted me to lose much sleep. She’d always held a more open and unrestricted approach to relationships, as long as I’d known her and even when we’d been in school and merely friends. And from the vailed way she’d mentioned a detachment from sexual and emotional ones, well, I could only assume she didn’t believe in monogamy. My father had carried on in a similar manner, sort of a don’t ask don’t tell approach. I would have never been too bothered by it. Until I discovered it involved someone I knew exceedingly well. My best friend. The secrets, the lies, and the proximity in our circle were what angered me now more than anything. Of all the men in Europe, she’d had to step out with Christopher Hemsworth.</p><p>Christopher, or Hem as i'd always called him, had grown up just down the road from me.  We had been inseparable since boyhood, and in truth, I had considered him more of a brother than my actual brother. We were near in age, he was only a year older, and although we were extremely different in appearance and mannerism– he was blonde and burly and somewhat rough around the edges–we’d always gotten on quite well. Rooming together at Eton had only brought us closer, so much in fact we’d elected to share a flat in Chelsea as we’d started off in our business lives. I’d thought he’d be my best man if Vivian and I ever actually tied the knot. The betrayal, by him more than Vivian, was the worst fucking part of this whole sordid mess. And severing ties with Vivian meant severing ties with Hem. It felt like cutting off my own arm and was a loss I wasn’t ready to accept.</p><p>I did feel a twinge of worry if Tessa were to find out I’d concealed such details from her and allowed her to sleep in my bed when I’d been engaged to another woman. She was from everything I’d seen so far, a strikingly honest person. This wasn’t the sort of information one could easily explain away. I quickly toweled off, doing a better job than I’d done the evening before, and willed myself to stop it soon. I had to properly put an end to my engagement before I could take things any father with that girl upstairs. My conscience wouldn't allow me to sleep with her until I'd broken off with Vivian.</p>
<hr/><p>“Tessa, it’s time to get up,” I said softly as the mattress dipped and I sat, resting my hand gently on her arm. She looked beautiful as she slept, her dark hair radiating against the white sheets like a halo, and I had to fight the urge to strip down and crawl back into bed. But I’d let her sleep as long as I could. I’d dressed, packed up silently, and ordered a coffee carafe from room service. But the car to take us to the station would be arriving in thirty minutes, and if we intended to make our flight, we would need to be downstairs by then.</p><p>“Good morning,” she said drowsily, as she propped herself up, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them under the sheets. God, she looked good, that haze of sleep still around her like a radiant aura. </p><p>“I thought you might have left already.”</p><p>“Left?” I questioned, suddenly a bit put off by the assumption that I was the sort of man to duck out silently in the night without some form of goodbye. I could be described as a lot of things, but a rogue wasn’t one of them. I’d always had the propriety tell a woman when I was going out, even if I never intended to see her again. It was a fault of mine, I reflected. The reason I couldn’t cut off Vivian until I’d done it in person.  </p><p>“I got up and didn’t see you and the room was dark. I figured you’d left to go to the airport,” she pressed her small hand into my shoulder and trailed it down the stiff crease in my starched sleeve. “But I’m glad I was wrong.”</p><p>“I only went for a quick run downstairs. But, we’ve a train to catch. I’ve ordered coffee if you’d like some while you get ready. The car will be here in twenty.” I lied, assuming if she was like most women, an additional ten minutes was required for an on-time departure.</p><p>Things were slightly awkward, and a nervous tension buzzed between us like static. I realized it was entirely my doing. I’d awoken at the crack of dawn, disappeared for a spell, only to return dressed for some boardroom meeting while she was in the clothes from the night before. I should have stayed with her, and not dipped out.</p><p>“A cup of coffee sounds amazing,” she said, as she hastily fastened the pearl buttons on that blouse. Probably feeling underdressed or overexposed on my account.</p><p>“Well, uh, how do you take it. I don’t believe I’ve learned that most critical piece of information yet,” I said, trying to gauge the waters.</p><p>The first morning after was so bloody difficult, both people uncertain exactly what the definition of things would be in the hazy daylight. It was not really the morning after in a technical sense –I’d restrained myself in that regard. But in other regards, I had not. I’d told her about my father and his absences, my mother and her distance both emotionally and physically now that she resided in Spain. I’d mentioned losing touch with my best friend – although I’d been terribly vague on the circumstances and the fiancé that had provoked it. For God's sake, I’d even explained my own self-doubts in business to some extent. But I hadn’t admitted I was the head and CEO of the Hiddleston Group. I’d reveal to her that small detail later.</p><p>Maybe I’d been more vulnerable with Tessa, even though I hadn’t crossed any physical barriers yet than I’d been in quite some time. Was this sort of self-disclosure more intimate than sex?</p><p>“Black,” she said, cutting through my spiraling thoughts. Christ, I was over analyzing everything like some school-aged girl.</p><p>“I used to put cream and sugar and the whole nine yards in my coffee. But I’m trying to be healthier this year. So black is how I take it now.”</p><p>“That’s surprisingly easy. I believe can remember,” I said, as I stood up from the bed, adjusting my slacks, and headed to the door.</p><p>“William,” she said in a slight voice, just barely above a whisper. “Thank you for letting me stay with you. I know things are always weird in the morning, but…”</p><p>“No need for a thank you. You’re always welcome in my bed,” I cut in as I hurried through to the living room to fetch her coffee. It took every ounce of restraint not to return to Tessa and join her beneith that god awful peacock headboard.</p>
<hr/><p>“Name’s Brady, I’ll be deliverin’ you to Paddington Station this mornin’.” The driver said in a thick Liverpool accent, as his dark eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror. He was a stocky man, with thinning hair and a long scar down the right side of his cheek. He looked the part of a driver only in dress, sporting a wool black coat, black cap, and thick leather gloves. He seemed like the sort of guy who could make someone disappear, <em>permanently</em>, if you asked him politely. And I wondered if Timothy had found him in the yellow pages under "I" for import/exports or "B" for bookies.  “May take a wee bit longer to get there. It’ll be slow goin’ since there’s ice underneath this snow.”</p><p>“Take your time,” I said, staring out at the whiteout we had left the warmth of the hotel to venture into. The snow was falling again. There had been some respite since I'd gotten up, but now it seemed to double down, making up for lost time if you will. Large flakes fell against the windscreen, and the driver flipped on the wipers to smear off the sticking crystals. </p><p>I was a tad bit peeved by the whole situation. I’d instructed Timothy to send a car for me at the Royal H and I hadn’t expected he’d interpreted my text to mean we’d need a bloody Bentley to take us two blocks up to the train. Tessa sat huddled next to me, her eyes wide and darting around, no doubt staring at the massive navigation screen, the fine white stitching in the black lambskin leather, and the roof that was a literal constellation. Above us shone a splattering of tiny LED lights set against navy velvet to resemble a night’s sky. Christ, it was overkill. A C-Class Mercedes would have been more than adequate, and I made a mental note to give Timothy a talking to when I saw him again. We were not in Abu Dhabi or Singapore. No need for this level of flagrant extravagance for a quick trip to the tube.  </p><p>“You aren’t makin’ attempts to get to the airport, are you Sir?” The driver inquired, with some hesitance in his raspy voice.</p><p>“Well yes, we are. Taking the Heathrow Express to the terminal. We’ve a flight that’s scheduled to leave around a half past ten.”</p><p>“Well, you might want to double-check that time. The thing is a girl I'm seeing works for British Airways doin’ customer service and it doesn’t sound like any flights will be takin’ off today from Heathrow. They’ve done re-bookings but most likely won’t get off the ground due to this fuckin’ storm. I’d hate for you get there and have to come back round’ when everything is grounded.”</p><p>Tessa fished her phone out, as did I, and we both silently compared screens. The flight to Chicago was listed as on time, but the amount of snow that had accumulated in the night did give me pause. Also, the steady precipitation falling at the moment in the car was something to consider. It did seem a tad bit miraculous we’d be able to make it to Paddington in this wintry mess, let alone take off in it.</p><p>“What do you think, William? If he’s right, I’d hate to be stuck in that crowded airport if the flight keeps being pushed. Sounds like a repeat of yesterday and we’d just have to come back here.” Tessa turned to me, wrapped in her puffy down coat, a look of concern painted on her fine features. She’d actually done her hair today, and it was pulled in away from her face in a loose bun. A few tendrils were loose from it, making the style all the more alluring to me. Her makeup was light, hastily applied. But she was completely lovely. I wondered what she’d look like if I had someone brought in to do it professionally. She’d be an absolute knock out, I wagered.</p><p>Was being stuck an additional night in London with Tessa the worst possible scenario? It sounded rather…appealing at the moment. I rarely took a day off, more often than not, I had meetings and conference calls, and the usual chatter coming through that kept me from enjoying time away. But since our home office was in London and had been so far radio silent, I suspected everyone had collectively agreed to be a bit lax due to the weather. Even on weekends, I'd have tennis or events I'd be forced to attend that kept me from relaxing in any real way. Perhaps a day playing hooky was precisely what I needed.</p><p>“I’ve an idea for a change of plans,” I announced, as I set my fingers lightly on Tessa’s thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin through her tight jeans.</p><p>“Instead of waiting in limbo at the airport, let’s make a day of it here. And we’ll start with a proper breakfast.”</p><p>“Brady, was it?” I asked the driver, who nodded and turned slightly from the mention of his name. “Do you believe you can get to Ye Olde Jackal Inn off of Fleet Street?”</p><p>“Uh, certainly sir. It might take a minute but shouldn’t be a problem gettin’ ya there.”</p><p>“Take your time,” I said, sliding my hand lightly down Tessa’s leg as the driver turned slowly at the following left. “That Inn’s been there since the sixteen hundreds, so no rush whatsoever. It will certainly be there when we arrive.”</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. No Substitutions</h2></a>
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    <p>“Are you sure we’re at the right place? It doesn’t look open.” I asked with some hesitation as I peered through the snowfall out the tinted glass of the car. Tudor plasterwork cracked between dark wooden beams, and an old faded sign hung from rusted chains above what was presumably the recessed alleyway entrance. Sturdy red brick masonry on the building next door, from maybe a century ago, jutted up against this place which was leaning in precarious angles on itself.  But a dim glow from behind several leaded stained-glass windows flickered, giving the impression that someone was home – or the building was haunted. Either option or both seemed entirely plausible to me.</p><p>“Oh aye, it’s open. A guest or two are always staying at the Inn upstairs, and the pub serves breakfast. Best black pudding in London, I’d say,” The driver chimed in, unlocking the doors of the expensive car from a central release.</p><p>“I very much appreciate the lift, Brady. And thank you for accommodating our destination change.” William handed off a stack of crisp and colorful bills between the leather seats and I set about opening the complicated door. It wasn’t really a handle, more of a button, and I felt a surge of relief as it clicked opened like some pandoras box.</p><p>“You can take the luggage back to the Royal H. Leave it with the Bellman under my name.”</p><p>“Certainly, Sir!” I caught the man’s dark eyes in the mirror as they widened. I didn’t know what the denominations the colors meant, but the rainbow wad of bills William had given the guy sent his lips curling up into a toothy grin, so it must have been a lot of cash.</p><p>“Uh, here, take my card. If you need me to fetch ya later give me a ring on my cellular, or have your assistant phone again. I’ve nothing else in my schedule with the weather as it is.” He said as his stubby hands pushed back a business card that William slipped in his pocket.</p><p>“Excellent. We might take you up on that offer,” he replied with a curt nod, as he unfolded himself and slammed the door. I felt the pressure from his hand, as he put it to my back, leading me down a treacherously narrow cobbled alleyway towards the entrance of Ye Olde Jackal Inn and Tavern.</p><p>Things were somewhat awkward between us this morning. Last night had been, for lack of a better word, amazing. My stomach was still so full of butterflies I felt like I could lift off the ground at any moment. We’d made out for what felt like hours. And god, was he good at that. He’d been so gentle with me and there was not any hint of a rush with this man. No feeling like all he wanted was to get me out of my pants. Although I probably wouldn’t have stopped him if he’d made any attempt. Instead, we’d fallen asleep together. Something I didn’t think I’d ever done on the first night with a new guy. Usually someone eventually rolled away to their respective side of the bed to actually sleep. But I had just dozed off effortlessly in my too tight blouse with all its buttons undone and tangled up in his arms. The last thing I remembered was the heat of his chest radiating through the black V-neck he’d changed into. I wish I’d woken up to that.</p><p>Instead, at just after <a>six o’clock</a>, my eyes shot open with a panicked tickle in my gut I often get when I’m sleeping someplace totally unfamiliar. Unsure just where I was, I took me a second to piece things together from the preceding hours. But thankfully, a bit of light slipped through the heavy damask drapery panels, revealing a crumpled duvet and completely empty sheets. William hadn’t been there.</p><p>He’d already gone was what I’d assumed, as I’d hopped out of bed and quickly and checked for him in the living area. Lights were off, I didn’t see his suitcase anymore, and I trudged back under the covers. I was not sure what to feel then.</p><p>We didn’t know each other at all really. Hell, I wasn’t even sure what his last name was – other than it began with an H since I’d seen the monogram TWH on his luggage. And making out one night in a hotel suite during a blizzard hardly meant I was intitled to some sort of formal goodbye from the man. Not to mention this whole issue with us possibly working together. He’d brought it up several times that some designer would be calling me, and then what? How could I explain to my boss, Candice, I’d been hooking up with a client I’d just brought in? I’d have to check the employee handbook on that one. For me, it was certainly a first.</p><p>I’d passed through all the stages of grief in a matter of moments when I’d realized he’d ducked out. First denial, thinking he’d must have been in the other room. Then anger. I had been pissed he’d left without so much as a goodbye. Bargaining had come next, since he seemed very much a gentleman, maybe he didn’t want to wake me up? Whatever the reason, I had been teetering on the verge of tears until I’d fallen asleep again, shifting into a silent acceptance that he was gone as quickly as I’d met him. It had felt like the train platform all over again, he’d just walked right off into the mist.</p><p>And the relief, it had been eutrophic to have all that pain and anxiety wiped clean in a wash of relief as his hand had settled on mine to wake me up for the train.</p><p>And now, here we were. Apparently “making a day of it” as he’d said, having breakfast at a place that looked like it was about to cave in on itself at any moment. Structurally, how could this building pass inspection? in Chicago, it would have been demolished long ago. It looked as architecturally sound as the shoe that old woman in the fairy tale had lived in.</p><p>“After you,” he said, as he leaned past me to push on the brass handle. And I stepped into a world that was four hundred years removed from the Royal H.</p><p>“Good grief,” was all I could mutter as I stared out at a tavern that looked like something out of a movie set. Original wood floors, darkened from thousands of pints being spilled on them planked the space unevenly. Short walls stretched up into intricate paneling towards the uneven ceiling. Two oversized stone hearths sat like bookends on either end of the room, crackling in oranges and reds that reflected off the gleaming hammered tin ceiling. Oil paintings, smudged from age and tobacco smoke, hung haphazardly against the crumbling walls with the stern faces of men in stockings and powdered wigs staring out. An older guy with a bald head and gold hoop earring welcomed us from behind the bar, giving instructions to “head down and ‘round the back stairs.”</p><p>If these walls could talk, I mused, as I followed William through a narrowing archway that was so short he had to duck his head and I almost did as well. The place felt like some sixteenth century labyrinth, full of tiny and equally impressive alcoves, all with lit stoves or hearths keeping out the chill. We wound down a final stone stairwell to a restaurant of sorts with a heavy wooden bar sunk in the corner behind a smattering of mismatched wooden tables.</p><p>“Sit anywhere you like,” a woman with sharp lines creasing her forehead and a shaggy blonde perm said gruffly from behind the bar, barely looking up from a copy of the Daily Tattler. From the headline, <em>Victor Victoria</em>, and a picture of Victoria Beckham with a full mustache, it seemed the publication was claiming the former Spice-Girl had been a man all along.</p><p>William motioned me towards a table next to yet another fireplace. This one was smaller, lined with sturdy silver beer mugs along the  mantle, and with soot coated cast iron bars over the grate. Small porcelain tiles, cracked from the years, lined the flames with scenes of little Dutch boys in wooden shoes and windmills painted in thin blue strokes.</p><p>“Have we traveled back in time?” I asked as I laughed. I leaned over the worn wood of the tabletop and slipped out of my puffy jacket. I was wearing an outfit much more appropriate for today, I thought, as I took off my bright blue scarf and slung it over my chair. I’d chosen a creamy cashmere sweater my boss had gotten me for Christmas the year before, and I’d worn flat booties, and not those stupidly high heeled ones I’d had on at the airport. Today, I didn’t feel as uncomfortable being seen out and about with William. But, as he slid out of his expensive cashmere coat, I suddenly wasn’t so sure.</p><p>He was more casual, it was Friday after all, but in his starched white collared shirt, dark blue blazer, striped slacks, and brown leather boots, I felt like some sort of carhop by comparison. He looked like he’d stepped out of a Harrod’s window display.</p><p>The waitress or owner approached. I wasn’t sure which she was. She moved with a unmistakable self-confidence like she owned the place. But it was also possible she’d just worked there for as long as she’d been smoking – and from the abundance of tiny lines around her mouth, that was probably a very long time.</p><p>“What can I get you two?” she asked, setting her long red nails on the edge of the table, revealing gawdy rhinestone rings adorning every finger including her thumbs.</p><p>“I think I need to see a menu,” I said as I crossed my legs under the table. It was uneven, and wobbled as my knee hit the underside with a thud. “And I’ll take a coffee to start.”</p><p>“No menus ‘ere,” she rasped with a revolving eye roll. “We’ve breakfast. You get bread – you can have wheat or white. Comes with a sausages, black puddin’, tomatoes and mushrooms, beans, and a fried egg.”</p><p>“Beans?” I asked, fighting the urge to scrunch my face up in disgust. “I don’t think I want any beans this early in the morning.” That sounded heavy, and if I was honest, totally disgusting.</p><p>She let out a sound, somewhere between a huff and a hmm. Whatever it meant, it wasn’t good, and William arched his black eyebrows, turning away from me to our waitress with flawless smile. It was something I’d picked up on the day before. He’d done it with me several times winding through the airport, and then on the train. Giving me a perfect smile that somehow managed to convey total and absolute annoyance underneath it. I didn’t think I’d ever met anyone would could be outwardly polite, but a total jerk all in the same time. Lucky, this waitress wasn’t picking up on his true sentiments as I was. She visibly puffed up with joy when he flashed his gleaming teeth at her.</p><p>“No substitutions – we’ll both have it just as it comes with wheat bread. And a shot of Jameson with each coffee, if you can.”</p><p>“That I can do, love,” she said as she trudged behind a threadbare plaid curtain to what I assumed was a kitchen, whistling all the way.</p><p>“We’re not dining at the hotel or some luxurious restaurant with a full menu. No avocado toast or kale smoothies, I’m afraid. If that’s what you want, you’ll be sorely disappointed by this meal.” His tone was not harsh, but the flat expression made me question if I’d annoyed him with my question about the beans. But come on? That sounded so bizarre. It was like a stewardess offering me potato skins on a flight. It would have been stranger for me not to say something about it.</p><p>“No, this is perfect, I’m just shocked this is someplace you’d want to eat at. I love hole in the wall places – for me, the divier the better. I just expected this wouldn’t be…your speed.” And it wasn’t. He looked completely out of place, in his perfectly pressed outfit, unfolding a frayed red napkin over his creased lap and setting the water spotted silverware on the dingy table. It made as much sense as seeing a horse in a courtroom.</p><p>“But, this is exactly the sort of cozy vibe I want on a snowy morning,” I went on. “With the old wooden paneling, and the fireplace with these little Dutch guys on it, it’s pefect. I really do love it here. And beans, who wouldn’t want those first thing in the morning?”</p><p>He smiled and crossed his arms and leaned back into the wood of the spindled chair, which made an alarming popping sound as he did it which he was completely unaffected by. That chair looked ancient. It could have been older than my own country, I reasoned. But the look of approval and seeing him staring at me with those deep blue eyes did something to me I couldn’t put into words. I worried for a moment I might slide into a puddle, and drip down between the planks of the floorboards.</p><p>I felt unnerved by him, alone in this quiet pub next to a crackling fire, feeling the complete center of William’s attention. I wasn’t comfortable around him at all. I was very much aware of each nervous fidget as I crossed and uncrossed my legs, straightened my birthstone ring on my index finger, and tucked a stray hair behind my ear. He, on the other hand seemed completely at ease, his broad back filling up that old chair, one leg stretched long towards the fireplace. Certainly, he had no fears on his part to be sitting across from me. But why on earth should he feel nervous at all?</p><p>He was one of the most attractive men I’d been ever been around. And it wasn’t really because of his looks. Yes, he was handsome, but I’d dated plenty of men who were arguably better looking than he was when you picked them apart feature by feature. No, the reason I felt so uncomfortable around William had to do with this tangible confidence that seemed to exude from every pore. He was powerful. It radiated out from him as strongly as heat from the fireplace beside me. I could feel it in my bones, and it was at the same time as alluring as it was terrifying. I wanted to crawl over the table towards him as much as I wanted to duck under to hide.</p><p>“So, how did you hear about this place?” I asked, as the old woman returned with coffees and two shot glasses and plopped them unceremoniously on the table.</p><p>“Honestly, I don’t know that I’ve never <em>not</em> known about this place. It’s quiet a famous old haunt. A pub or tavern of some kind has been situated on this spot since the fifteen hundreds or so, and after the great fire it was hobbled together into what you see today. This downstairs part we’re in now, well, it dates back even farther as it was some monastery. Explains all the little alcoves and tiny rooms, since monks lived more like moles in those days.</p><p>“After Eaton, when I was working and living with my friend Hem, we’d come fairly often. Seems a heavy breakfast is the best cure for a hangover, and well, we were in our twenties, so we were hungover more often than not.”</p><p>“I think you mentioned him last night. Is he the friend you aren’t on good terms with anymore?” I asked after I’d copied William, and dumped my shot in the steaming mug and taken a sip. The coffee was bitter, and the shot of Jameson did nothing to mask it. I felt my face contorting involuntarily from the burn. It wasn’t like me to drink this early in the morning, but I didn’t feel like I was in a position to argue with my date when he’d ordered the whisky.</p><p>William shifted in his seat, planting his feet firmly on split black floors. His eyes darted a bit before focusing on some distant point behind me as he answered, “Yes, Hem was, or is, my friend that I’m on the outs with. Won’t bother you with the details of it but I’m afraid it’s the sort of thing one can’t easily get over. He’s made several attempts to mend fences and apologize to me. Even going so far as showing up at the Paris office unannounced. I didn’t let my girl buzz him in. Just left him standing out there for a half hour before he trudged off. Our circles are so entwined, it’s only a matter of time until I see him socially. But at the moment, things are irreconcilable I’m afraid.”</p><p>My stomach twisted, recognizing something I could only describe as sorrow suddenly plastered on his features. He looked terribly sad, and I understood that sort of loss of friendship.</p><p>“ I had a similar thing with my best friend from college, Sadie. And of course it involved a guy, who ended up completely ruining our friendship. They’d dated off and on, and it was so hard, watching this jerk break her heart repeatedly. He’d swear him off like bad Chinese food, only to be back with him in a few days. This endless cycle was infuriating to stand by and watch. And after one really bad episode, where he’d cussed her out over something totally trivial at a friend’s birthday dinner, I’d had enough. I gave him a taste of his own medicine, telling him what a pathetic and sleazy jack ass he was for treating her like that.</p><p>“To my shock and astonishment, it seemed to have the opposite effect as I’d hoped. Sadie felt like I’d gone too far. And slowly, she began severing ties with me all together. They ended up getting married last year and I wasn’t even invited to the wedding.”</p><p>“My situation also centers around a significant other. But for me, it’s almost like it would be easier if Hem had been killed in some accident. Then I could get over it and move on.”</p><p>“That’s how I feel about Sadie. It’s somehow worse knowing she just doesn’t want me in her life. It felt like losing a part of me, like an amputation or something.”</p><p>His eyes caught mine, blue and tinged with orange from the reflection of the little fire, and I felt a knot in my stomach twist tightly, making it almost difficult to draw a breath. I had the misguided urge to crawl over the splintered table and put my lips on his right then and there. And from the way his eyes refused to look away from mine, I knew the thought was mutual.</p><p>“Exactly,” he said softly, shifting again in his seat and fishing out his iPhone from his pocket. “You know, it’s funny. Sometimes you say things, and I feel like you’re some sort of medium reading my thoughts. I’ve often felt like this situation with Hem feels like I’ve chopped off my own arm. Like a part of me is just…hacked off.”</p><p>The waitress/owner appeared from behind the tartan curtain and moved towards us with two hefty plates. Sausages hung off the sides, as did slices of toast, pushed off the edges from the quantity of food on each plate. This definitely wasn’t elf food, like we would have had if we’d eaten at the hotel. I wondered if I should have asked for a child’s serving, since there was no possible way I could finish off so much food.</p><p>“Notha’ round of coffee?”  The woman asked William. Apparently she was done dealing with me directly, and he was the tables single customer now.</p><p>“Yes, more coffee. And more Jameson, please. We’re celebrating today,” he said, flashing her that same double sided smile as he’d done before.</p><p>“Celebrating, I asked, the woman headed behind the bar to grab us another round. “Just what exactly are we celebrating?”</p><p>“Our twice cancelled flight.” He handed his phone towards me and I read the words in the automated text he’d just received:</p><p>FLIGHT 842 – <a>10:35 A.M.</a> DEPARTURE CHANGE. CONTACT AGENT TO REBOOK.</p><p>“It seems you’re stuck with me at least another day,” He said as he finished off the last sip of his whisky and coffee in one gulp.</p><p>“That sure is something to celebrate. Cheers,” I said, my voice slightly wobbling from the euphoria of it all. I picked up my coffee and whisky and shot it down as he’d done. Another day and another night with William - it was almost too good to be true.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Art Museum it is</h2></a>
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    <p>“What about the lady with the big green coat?” Tessa asked in a whisper as she covertly pointed to a middle-aged woman who’d come down the narrow stairs with several others. We’d just finished our meal, or what we could since the portions were massive, and the irritable waitress had dropped off the change leaving us to finish off our last sips of coffee.</p><p>As dreadfully cold as it was this morning, it didn’t deter people from venturing out. And I estimated the place would be occupied in an hour or so and I was thoroughly relieved we’d beaten the crowds. The tabletops were suddenly filling up with diners, all shrouded in their heaviest winter gear, unfurling themselves like fleece-lined sails before they plopped down for a hearty breakfast.</p><p>“Definitely a German tourist. Probably on holiday from Frankfurt I suspect. She’s got a severely choppy haircut she no doubt trims herself. And obnoxiously functional hiking boots meant for climbing a fjord. But the real giveaway is that parka. German tourists always have utilitarian coats with dozens of pouches and zip-up compartments. She probably has an aluminum canteen and a camp stove tucked in a pocket.”</p><p>Tessa shifted away from the woman towards me as she laughed, and there was something rather thrilling about hearing it. She wasn't the sort of woman to shy away from a good giggle, and when she let herself her face lit up like Christmas. She had a quick sense of humor and the banter came fast as we volleyed back and forth. Her green eyes, the color of emeralds, caught mine for a moment too long, as though we were the only ones in the tavern. It was addictive seeing her this comfortable with me. And it spurred me on all the more. </p><p>“I think you're right about her hailing from Germany," Tessa said as she folded her threadbare napkin and returned it to the table. "The US equivalent would be someone being from Main or Vermont. I bet that coat turns into one of those little pop-out tents, too, if she needs a quick nap.” </p><p>We were playing a game of sorts and it all started when Tessa asked what I guessed our gruff waitresses’ back story was, which wasn’t too difficult to cook up.</p><p>I’d told her the lady, probably named Mildred, or Milly for short, had worked there since her teenage years, and had finally inherited the place when the surly old owner had a coronary in the walk-in freezer. After things were sorted out in the courts, since his adult children no doubt objected to her inheriting <em> Ye Olde Jackel Inn and Tavern </em>, she finally owned it outright and ruled her serfdom with a tightly manicured acrylic fist. Milly was on husband number four or five. He was the bald-headed chap with the earring we'd seen at the door, and they'd met on holiday at Brighten Beach. And after two years and change, it seemed she’d found her counterpart. Or at least a man who voiced no objections to her six cats or her extensive collection of Princess Di memorabilia.</p><p>That sent Tessa into a fit of giggles, and the game had evolved from there as more diners trickled in. She’d explained that a rather severe-looking gentleman with a pronounced widow's peak was a television producer, scouting for filming sites on some reality series on Haunted Pubs of Britain. And I’d made a compelling argument that the handsome woman with a black bob, cat-eyed liner, and long leather gloves who'd joined him at the table was in fact a psychic, here to speak to the spirits directly over breakfast.</p><p>The most amusing part of our game was that we seemed to be entirely on the same wavelength in our evaluations of others. I was bemused, really, how alike our observations on our unsuspecting marks could be.</p><p>“So where to after this?” Tessa asked, as she finished her coffee and pushed it to the edge of the old table. "I don't think I can do any more eating. Or drinking for that matter."</p><p>The question caught me off guard. In truth, I hadn’t given much thought to what we might get up to. Prospects were terribly limited. It was snowing, with a good five inches of accumulation already, so venturing out into the weather for a day on foot wasn’t in the cards. Looking at my watch, it was just before ten. It would take us a minute to walk, but the British Museum was nearly open and was just a block up. It would be cold as sin, but doable. And she seemed the artsy type, in textile design after all. I decided that might be just the place to take her.</p><p>“What are your thoughts on, say, visiting a museum? Or is that too touristy even though you are in fact a tourist?”</p><p>“That all depends on the museum. An art museum? Then yes. A museum on the Norman Conquest? Probably a hard pass.”</p><p>"Art museum it is," I said, as I pulled my coat on and pushed back from the table.</p>
<hr/><p> "Did you grow up in London?" Tessa asked as we came round a lengthy corridor stuffed with gleaming white statuary. We'd already passed through the extensive Egyptian collection, inspecting old sarcophagi, hieroglyph painted panels with long and lean pharos, gilded scarab beetles the size of my fist, and alabaster gods with the heads of wild beasts.</p><p>She'd asked me to take her picture next to a massive granite bust of Ramesses II, which she looked so lovely in, I was tempted to text to myself. I was quite a good photographer, I reasoned, as I stared at my handiwork a bit too long. I owed that of course to Vivian who's incessant nagging about retaking her photos multiple times had made me exceedingly conscious of angles and lighting. I was able to capture the highlight on Tessa's cheekbones, and the soft curve of her hip where her hand rested all in a single click.</p><p>She was an attractive girl, with large eyes and prominent bone structure and supple and pouting lips, although in dress and general appearance, she was a bit unpolished around the edges. Her hair had been in a loose bun on our walk, which she'd taken down once we'd gotten into the museum past the guards and the bookstore into the main gallery. Now it was a bit of a mess after our jaunt outdoors, as the snow melted and curled it into a tangled mop. I usually went for women who were a bit more consumed with their outward condition, which was just a reflection of my own narcissism. Water finds its own level and all that, I reasoned. Yes, most of the women I’d dated seriously would have raced to the lady's room to fix a stray hair and re-apply their red lipstick. But it was rather exhilarating, being around someone so uninhibited by vanity and uninterested in their outward appearance. Tessa didn't much care what other people thought of her, which was as refreshing as it was alluring to me.</p><p>"....Well...." she said as she slapped me playfully on the shoulder with the Museum's glossy directory and broke me out of my wandering thoughts.</p><p>"Oh sorry. No, I'm afraid I didn't grow up in London," I said, stopping in front of a gleaming marble of a very buxom greek woman missing an arm and half of her head. "I was born in London, or just outside the city, but my family moved near Bath shortly after. That's where my father still is-at our country house- but he moves around a bit. Mother left for Spain after they separated like I mentioned last night. She's been in Majorca ever since they divorced."</p><p>“I bet Majorca is beautiful. Do you go out there much?” She asked as she peered closer to inspect a delicate fold chiseled into the polished stone.</p><p>“No, not often. I’m afraid to say it's been at least a year or two since we've seen each other. And, she's always been closer to my older brother, Peter, than me. He's an academic type, a professor actually, takes after her in that way. Whereas I'm more like my father in business and in life I'm afraid.” It was unusual telling these sorts of personal and intimate tidbits to a woman I'd only just met. But, it didn't feel wrong. If anything, it felt strangely right. </p><p>We started on again, both of us seemed comfortable not filling every silence with a rebuttal or a comment. The conversation came in waves, not forced, but nudged on organically as we wound through the maze of exhibits, each more extensive than the last. I became very much aware of the clicking of my heel on the polished granite stones of the floor. It seemed we were the only two people in the Greek Exhibit Halls, looking at statues, carvings and busts rendered thousands of years before. </p><p>"My mother loves the arts, so my brother and I got dragged along with her to museums and art galleries a fair bit. This is probably my twentieth time coming here. It's funny how much I hated anything educational as a child, but now that I'm much older, I wish I'd paid attention and actually read the placards."</p><p>"It's never too late to start," she said, as we moved on to a rather dramatic frieze, depicting a bearded and burly man, violently grasping the leg of an infant in each hand. Both children seemed to be writhing away in fear from their captor, a look of abject terror painted plainly on their features.</p><p>"<em> Kronos, King of the Titanes </em> , <em> 406 BC, Marble </em>-  In fear of a prophecy that he would be overthrown by his own son, he devoured each of his children as they were born," Tessa read, facing me with a pronounced scowl as she made a dramatic turn. "Okay, maybe that was the wrong placard to start with!"</p><p>“Quite right. Seems like a rather <em> unsavory </em>character,” I said as I followed her with a chuckle, laughing at my own terribly unfunny joke.</p><p>She’d walked on, glancing at a collection of several large friezes of muscular torsos, and bits of elaborately carved robe with missing chunks, chips and chinks. Such a shame that so much beauty had been lost, sawed-off and shipped away from the ancestral homelands of Greece. I stood squinting, as I attempted to visualize these massive marble installations in their prime some two thousand years before. Nothing was safe from the ravishes of time or the selfishness of greedy men, I mused. </p><p>“So, this is something I actually know a bit about,” I chimed in, as we moved deeper into the open space, through clumps of Carerra busts and models. We headed towards one tall slender column in the back, carved in the shape of a woman.</p><p>“Are you familiar with Thomas Bruce, 7th Earl of Elgin?” I inquired as I leaned towardsTessa<em>. </em></p><p>“Oh, of course. All kids in Texas learn about him in Elementary School, along with Sam Houston and Davy Crockett,” she said with the hint of a smirk. “All kidding aside, I know where you’re going. We discussed this in one of my undergrad art history classes. Isn’t he the guy that essentially stole these by making some deal with the Ottomans who were occupying Greece? He’s pretty much a thief. They should be back in Athens where they belong.”</p><p>“Yes, that’s exactly what I was going to say. Actually, you may know a bit more about this than I do, I'm embarrassed to say.” We both stared up at the caryatid in front of us, long-limbed and perfectly formed in stone. A good chunk of her face had been lopped off, whether from erosion or in transport here, I wasn’t entirely sure. She stood on sturdy footing, one knee jutting outward in a sort of <em>contrapposto</em> stance, with thick folds and pleats pooling at her strapped sandals and rising up to her prominent waist. Although much of her features were missing, she held herself with a silent stoicism that was unmistakable, and terribly sad somehow. </p><p>“It’s amazing,” Tessa answered as she met my gaze for a moment, “Seeing these things carved from rock. How lifelike they can be when they’re thousands of years and a world removed. Even with most of her nose gone, and missing both arms, I feel like she looks heartbroken. Like she knows she’s far from home and may never get back.”</p><p>I didn’t realize I’d done it until I felt Tessa’s hand so warm and small in my own. I’d stepped over the tiles, closing the distance, and pressed my palm towards hers, and she’d accepted the gesture without so much as a flinch as though this were totally acceptable on my part. It was ridiculous, really, holding hands like school children with a woman I’d only met the day before. But in spite of the absurdity of it, we walked like that for some time, her hand curled with mine until we moved out and into a larger gallery and then back to the main rotunda of the Museum. It felt, strangely right, our fingers entwined like two vines. I was afraid if I spoke a word or even inhaled too deep a breath that I might break the spell.</p><p>We reached a more modest gallery off the main corridor, this with strikingly abstract with large canvases in canary yellows and cobalt blues along the back wall. Some sort of installation made from tiny taught white strings hung down from the soaring ceiling to the floor, giving the illusion when you looked at the canvases behind that they were in moving like some stop motion picture.</p><p>“Now, this is something I absolutely hate,” I announced, as Tessa broke free of my hand to move back and forth quickly from one foot to the other, no doubt enhancing effect.</p><p>“You hate this? I think it’s kind of interesting!” She said, as she gave me a playful push and I joined. In theory, it was clever, I couldn’t deny that the use of something as simple as strings, placed in precise positions might produce this optical illusion as though the paintings behind were flying past. But the whole business was nauseating. I wondered if they ought to give patrons those airsick bags you find on the seatback of a plane in case one felt the urge to throw up. But in general, that's how I felt about most contemporary art. The kings new clothes, or something like that.</p><p>“I think I've had enough of this exhibit. All these modern installations are always rubbish." I grabbed her hand and pulled her through to yet another corridor, this one smaller, with sketches and canvasses of all sizes. It was a contemporary exhibition with one theme: flowers. And to my astonishment, this room was actually occupied by more than just the stoic guards who stood watch in corners and meandered through silently. I chuckled as Tessa gave me a stern SHHHH, so not to disturb the other patrons. </p><p>They didn't acknowledge our presence, but they were quite distracted it seemed since they were in the throes of a heated debate. The well-dressed couple were arguing in Russian, and the sharp fricative consonants all ending in Zs and Ts echoed through the gallery like ricocheting bullets. We turned our backs to them, both pretending to inspect a rather lifeless sketch of a lily pad done in charcoal. Why anyone would choose charcoal for a lily pad was beyond me, it completely sucked the life from an otherwise lovely plant. I wondered if this artist had ever heard of Monet or seen his take on the subject matter.</p><p>“What do you think they’re fighting about?” Tessa asked in a hushed whisper as she pushed her shoulder into my chest. I was suddenly aware of how petite she was. I’d known it the night before, as she’d cuddled herself against my body with her limbs so small and short against my own. But now, huddled as we were, I thought it again. And felt the mistaken urge to hoist her up, let her wrap her short legs around my middle, and press her back into the cold plaster of the gallery wall.  </p><p>“He’s some Russian oligarch who’s just received last month’s banking statement. She’s probably bought more Fabergé Eggs.”</p><p>“Is that what you think Russian people fight about?” </p><p>“No doubt. Also a good deal of quarreling over vodka and who last took the bear for a walk,” I said as we both fought laughter, each ones giggles spurring on the other. Somehow things were twice as hilarious as we attempted not to draw suspicion and stay hushed. </p><p>“And just what do British couples have arguments about? One of them ate the <em>last of the crisps in the cupboard</em>? Someone being <em>miffed at the other for getting legless at the pub</em>?” She whispered, faking the worst cockney accent I’d ever heard. She sounded like some on set extra from Peaky Blinders.</p><p>“That’s quite remarkable, Tessa. You have a good grasp as the British people as a whole." I grabbed her small hand and wound us out to the adjacent passage we’d come through until the Russian’s and their sharp voices couldn’t be heard.</p><p>“I think I have a good grasp on you, and you're British,” she said, giving my hand a squeeze. “You aren’t at all like the jerk who was trying to shove past on the plane. You’re actually sort of pleasant when you want to be.”</p><p>“I suppose I should take that as a compliment?” I mumbled as I turned to face her, only a few inches now separated us in the horrible string installation room, and I pushed her back into the corner, so we'd be shielded by anyone passing by the main entrance. “Well, Tessa Taylor, you aren’t exactly what I thought either.”</p><p>“And just what did you think of me?”</p><p>I paused, wondering just how honest I should be. In truth and from a strictly physical perspective, I hadn’t thought much at all at our first meeting. Whether or not it was intentional on her part, that puffer coat and the tangled hair and glasses acted as some sort of impenetrable forcefield preventing me from noticing the woman beneath. Something in my gut twisted, as I remembered that I’d barely even acknowledge her presence, aside from attempting to push aside in my hurry to sort out my flight. If she’d simply moved over out of the aisle, as I’d instructed, I never would have given her another thought for as long as I lived. But through some elaborate comedy of errors, first being beside each other at the gate, and finally, a booking glitch that caused us to share a room, forces of nature had propelled us together with limited say in the matter. We’d come alarmingly close to parting ways at seven or eight junctions, and the thought of that, just how precariously fragile our lives are fated, almost sent me into a full-blown panic.</p><p>I had developed a keen awareness of what I thought of her. In fact, my thoughts were completely and utterly consumed by the girl.</p><p>I let out a sigh, as I avoided her eyes and stared at a clump of strings just behind her head. “Well, I thought you were rather feisty. Sassy, I believe is the word that went through my mind after you’d given me a tongue lashing. I thought you were in dire need of a comb. And those high heeled leather boots you had on were wildly inappropriate for travel.”</p><p>She stared up at me, those green eyes tethered to mine, and I debated just how far I should continue. I’d dodged the question, and she looked slightly crestfallen by my entirely deadpan assessment. My breath caught, as I debated whether or not to tell her just what I was thinking.</p><p>“Tessa, I’ll be honest. It’s not so much what I thought when I first met you. I think the question you should be asking is what I think now.”</p><p>“And what’s that?” She asked hesitantly, as she tilted her head up to mine.</p><p>“I’d much prefer to show you rather than tell you.”</p><p>My lips bent to catch hers. She tasted warm, a twinge of Jameson still on her tongue and I pressed mine into her mouth deeper to search it out. My hands reached behind the tangle of hair, splaying through it at the nape of her neck and stroking gently. She let out a sound, somewhere between a moan and a sigh, and I pushed my kiss hard into hers, not wanting to lose contact between us for even a moment. I didn’t care that we were in some gallery in an extremely communal space. I wasn’t bothered our public display of affection might shock or offend the unsuspecting patron who might wander in. I only wanted to feel her, this heat from Tessa that burned and soothed me all at once. I was tied to her, and I couldn’t let her go if Picasso himself burst in to break us apart.</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. He Can Bloody Wait</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> …Ahemm…</em>
</p><p>William tore his lips away from mine, shifting towards the interruption. Although we were in the center of the gallery hall I had completely forgotten we weren’t the only two people in the exhibit or the entire museum for that matter.</p><p>“Apologies,” he grumbled at the lanky security guard who’d swung around the corner, catching us with our tongues practically down each other's throats. William grasped my hand and tugged me out the entrance into the rotunda, past the guard who scowled at us with contempt as though we’d been trying to stuff a canvas down into our coats. I felt my cheeks coloring as I dodged eye contact and stared at the grout line dividing the glossed marble tiles of the floor. I felt like I was in high school, getting caught under the bleachers again.</p><p>“Well, that was uncomfortable.” He squeezed my fingers. “What is it about you and I ending up in impossibly embarrassing situations? I have to wonder if you’re at fault as these sorts of things don’t generally happen to me when I’m alone.”</p><p>“Me?” I feigned shock. “That was all your fault! You’re the one who practically tackled me in that string exhibit and pressed me into the corner. It wasn’t my idea to make out in public like that.”</p><p>“It rather seemed like you were enjoying yourself, but if I was mistaken I won’t let it happen again, Ms. Taylor.” His lips parted deliciously into a slight smirk and I resisted the urge to close the distance and kiss him.</p><p>“I just said it was all you. I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy it.”</p><p>The morning had soared by, first from our delicious breakfast, then from meandering through the halls and galleries of the British Museum. He was an excellent guide, offering up little tidbits of information and succinct facts as we’d strolled at a leisurely pace. I didn’t think I’d had so much fun doing something education in my whole adult life.</p><p>We reached the doorway and a handful of security guards, staring out the frosted panes of the windows and doors at a world coated in crystal and white. Thankfully, it had stopped snowing, but flakes still danced and swirled with the winds, being picked up off the ledges and plasterwork of the neighboring buildings. It almost looked like it was still coming down from the sky.</p><p>“Now it’s my turn to ask, where to?” He questioned as he pulled his cell from his pocket, breaking eye contact and looking at his screen.</p><p>I did the same, only to see alerts for multiple texts and calls. It seems whatever time it was in Chicago, Candice had been trying to reach me. I skimmed through, each message sounding slightly more abrasive until I reached the last from five minutes before.</p><p>“I had to check your flight number to see it had been canceled again. Still, no email or call on the last Geneva meetings, like you promised you’d update me on. Call immediately. I’m not sure if you’re slacking, or if something serious has happened to you. -C”</p><p>A cold panic flooded over me as I sounded out each word from her text. Since the following afternoon, I hadn’t so much as thought about work other than when I’d given William my card and he'd mentioned a designer would be in touch. I had to call Candice to cover my bases, and quick.</p><p>“Everything alright?” William read my scrunching features, detecting my sudden shift in mood as though I’d let out an audible scream.</p><p>“Yes, I’m totally fine,” I scanned around the lobby area of the museum until I spotted a distant corner near the bathrooms that looked as good a place as any to make an international call. “What time is it in Chicago? I was supposed to let my boss know what my flight situation was and given her a Geneva update. I’ve got to call her now but I’m afraid it’s too early there.”</p><p>He tugged back his sleeve, revealing that gleaming stainless watch again, which apparently kept time in several international zones from the same bezel. “Well, it’s half past twelve here, so that’s seven-thirty in the morning, central and standard time in Illinois.”</p><p>“Okay thanks, she’ll be up. I’ll just be a minute if you'll excuse me.” I hurried over, putting some distance between us as my heels clicked in a steady rhythm against the hard floors, echoing in the open space like I was in some marble tomb.</p><p>“Candice?,” I asked hesitantly as the phone quit ringing. My heart was beating in my throat so loudly it was vibrating my skull as I waited for her to reply. She was hard to read in person, difficult over the phone, and almost impossible to gauge via text or email. The suspense cut through me like a blade.</p><p>“Well, I assume you aren’t dead or chopped up by Jack the Ripper. What an absolute <em>relief</em>.” She drew out the last word for emphasis. Her sarcasm was a positive sign. It meant she wasn’t going to fire me at least. </p><p>“I’m sorry Candice. It was so early this morning when I got up, so I didn’t want to wake you. I meant to send an email at the airport, but the flight ended up being canceled and I had a slight detour and I'm actually at the British Museum. Short story long, but I am alive and here in London at least another night.”</p><p>“Well, I realize the cancellations are not your fault but it’s throwing a huge wrench in things for me here. I was going to cover your highlights on the Geneva expansion this morning on the nine a.m. executive call, but I guess that will have to wait because I haven’t heard a damn thing since Wednesday night from you,” She paused, and my tongue felt stuck to the roof of my mouth. I wasn’t sure whether to plead for my job or burst into my entire Geneva talking points.</p><p>“I am so sorry. I know you hate it when I apologize, but really I am. I’ve got all my notes almost ready, actually, I made a PowerPoint and I’ll send that out to you and we can go over everything when I’m back. I had no idea this flight today would be-”</p><p>“Don’t <em>apologize</em>, Tessa. <em>Strategize</em>. Fix the issue instead of saying ‘sorry’.”</p><p>Candice was known for her “Candice-isms. "Don’t apologize, strategize" was one I’d heard at least a hundred times. I’d thought about having that one printed on a coffee mug for bosses’ day, but a personalized mug was probably so pedestrian and basic, she’d have fired me on the spot. </p><p>“Actually, something has happened,” I bit into my lip, wondering if I should go ahead and tell her about the potential business partnership I’d struck up with William and the Hiddleston International Hotel Group. I had wanted to wait until this designer contact of William's actually called me, but under the circumstances, it felt like a real hail mary. There wasn’t much Candice liked more than the possibility of new business and it might be just the distraction I needed.  </p><p>“I ended up taking the train into London with a guy who actually works for the Hiddleston International Hotel Group. He’s putting me in contact with one of their designers, and it seems like a really solid lead. They are starting renovations on some of their older properties next quarter, with our new factory in Geneva this might-”</p><p>Candice cut me off, interrupting with enthusiasm that almost shook me out of my boots. I’d turned a corner, successfully redirecting her, like I was a matador flipping a crimson cape.</p><p>“Hiddleston Hotels? I’ve been trying to get a foot in the door with them since Clinton was in office! How did you manage to…” she trailed off, and the connection cut out for a split second as she put me on speaker. I heard her long red nails pounding away at her keyboard before she started up again. “I’m very impressed, Tessa. Really I am. It seems like this layover hasn’t been a total and complete loss. What’s the name of your contact? Is he out of their London headquarters or Paris? I’m on Linkedin now so I’ll see if we have any mutual connections. Aside from you now, of course.”</p><p>Panicking, my gut twisted into a shortening knot that I struggled to untie. I didn’t actually know his last name, which was such an incredibly simple thing. Why the hell hadn’t I thought to ask?</p><p>“He said he’s out of the Paris office? I get the feeling he is very involved in a lot of aspects of the company. His name is Thomas William-”</p><p>“Hiddleston?” Candice exclaimed. “My god, Tessa, why didn’t you lead with that? You’ve got the ear of the President and CEO of HIHG, and he’s connecting you with his designer? Well done my girl! Well done!”</p><p>My heart shuddered. I turned, glancing over my shoulder as Candice started into a long monologue about strategy, synergy, and a thousand other buzzwords. I totally zone out. Staring instead at William as he leaned casually against a Carrera pillar, his broad shoulder pressed into the carved stone, scrolling through something on his phone. His sharp jaw tilted down, shaved and clean, and no doubt smelling like that juniper soap that made the hairs stand on end when I smelled it. I remembered how soft and smooth his skin felt against my lips and cheek just a few minutes before my entire perceptions of him had changed in a single blink. Holy hell, he couldn’t be the owner of the whole damn hotel chain, could he? Wouldn’t that be something he would have thought to mention? I pulled the phone away from my face. Candice was on such a roll, I wouldn’t miss anything too critical. I clicked over to google and frantically typed his name ‘Thomas William Hiddleston’ in my search bar. Image results and articles flooded through and all were definitely him. Headshots, group shots, pictures of him being presented with a <em>Businessman of the Year</em> award by some literal Saudi Prince. I swallowed hard, feeling almost queasy from the confirmation. I’d been making out, scratch that, I’d stayed the night with Thomas William Hiddleston?</p><p>“So where do things stand? You’re waiting for his designer to touch base? Can you set up a meeting since you’re in town as soon as you hear from him? Maybe you should stay on into next week. The weather should clear up by Sunday and I can get on a flight out to Heathrow. I really think I need to be in on this from the start, and what’s the old expression - strike while the iron is hot?”</p><p>William dropped his phone in his coat pocket, tilting his eyes up at me and giving me a wink as he pointed to his watch.</p><p>“Holy shit,” I said more as a realization, not meaning to have said it out loud.</p><p>“What? What’s that mean, Tessa? Holy Shit what?”</p><p>“Oh sorry, I just almost slipped. It’s uh, really slick here with the snow and ice. Uhm, let me visit with Mr. Hiddleston and see about his designer's schedule and if I can set up a meeting and you can fly in. That would definitely be good to have you here...what was it you said? Hit the hot iron?”</p><p>“Strike while the iron is hot, Tessa. And consider yourself off the proverbial hook. Update me immediately after you’ve scheduled something. I want to book my travel as soon as possible. Also, I’ll arrange a call on Zoom tomorrow with Chris, and Melanie in development. Maybe Callie in operations. It’s Saturday, but under the circumstances, they’ll understand. I’ll handle all that and send an email with the time.”</p><p>“Thank you, Candice.”</p><p>“No, thank you, Tessa. What a…” she paused, I’m sure reaching for a compliment that communicated her approval without puffing my ego too much. “What a solid start towards redeeming yourself.”</p><p>I hung up, stuffing my phone back in the pocket of my jeans as I fought to find my breath. Like some “Choose Your Own Adventure” book I’d read as a child, a hundred possible next steps raced through my mind. Should I march over, enraged that he hadn't told me? Demanding answers and apologies? Or would I keep silent, waiting for him to reveal this critical piece of information to me on his own timeline? I wasn’t good at keeping secrets, never had been and never would be. How long before I let the dam break and I admitted that I knew?</p><p>On some level, I was furious with William for not telling me from the moment I’d given him my card that he was actually the fucking CEO of the company. That seemed an unusual thing to keep hidden since we’d had literally hundreds of opportunities for him to mention it. I didn’t understand the why of it all - what possible reason did he had to not being able to tell me this from the get-go.</p><p>But, I’d scored definite points with my boss, potentially bringing in hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of contracts and bankrolling our whole European expansion in one single day. But how should I navigate this? Now that Candice was involved and elbowing her way into it, and was expecting me to see this business through when all I really wanted was to end up back in the Wexcroft suite with William? Christ, I felt pulled in every direction, like I was being drawn and quartered. </p><hr/><p>“You seem quiet after that call with your boss. Candice, was that her name?” William asked. He’d texted Brady, the driver with the freaking Bently who’d taken us to breakfast, and William had him pick us up so we didn’t have to walk back to the hotel in the snow. I’d been tung tied, totally silent since I’d found out who he actually was. I wasn’t exactly nervous anymore, we were way past that point. I was just totally conflicted. I was like the kid in class who knew Santa wasn’t real and had to keep the secret to myself. All I wanted to do was shout out his full name, and demand to know why he hadn’t told me. </p><p>“Oh no, I’m totally fine. Just a little stressed about work. I mentioned to Candice that I’d met somewhere with the Hiddleston Hotel Group and she’s wanting to fly over right now to set up a meeting. I probably should have held off on bringing it up. She’s pretty ADD when it comes to stuff like that. Just full speed ahead at any potential business. I told her I hadn’t even talked to your designer friend yet, so I’ll have to get her to cool her jets somehow.”</p><p>“He hasn’t called or emailed yet? I forwarded your contact information last night.” William shot forward in the plush leather seat and pulled his phone from his pocket. “Let me give him a call now. Let’s see if he’s at the office, we can swing by.”</p><p>“Oh no, I’d hate to do that. If you gave it to him yesterday I'm sure he'll get back soon,” I said as I crossed my arms, instantly regretting what I’d told him about my call. “Candice is just, really intense sometimes. She’ll cool off.”</p><p>He didn’t acknowledge me and ignored my resistance. His phone shot up to his ear, his spine lengthened against the plush leather, and his voice pierced through the car as this poor designer contact answered after the first ring.</p><p>“I’d like to connect you personally to Tessa Taylor with Watson &amp; Wyatt Textiles. We’re on the way to Babett at the Royal H for a quick lunch, but if you can swing by around two we should be finished up. We’ll meet you in the lounge.”</p><p>I heard a muffled, "Oh, okay yes I can be there," on the phone before William acknowledged dismissively in a mumble and hung up.</p><p>“He’s not in the office, I could hear his bloody dogs barking in the background.”</p><p>“Well, it is a Friday during a freaking blizzard. I wouldn’t be in the office either.”</p><p>William let out a long-drawn sigh, as he propped a hand on each knee. “I guess you are right. I sometimes forget people have actual lives outside of work. I didn’t sound too cross with him, did I?”</p><p>“Well, no. I mean, you sounded a little bit peeved, but nothing compared to what Candice can sound like.</p><p>"So I guess you are his boss?” I knew the answer. William's last name was on the building. William was <em>everyone's</em> boss at the Hiddleston International Hotel Group. But I wanted to see how he’d handle it, and if he’d finally tell me what his last name actually was.</p><p> “In a roundabout way, I guess so. He doesn’t really report directly to me, but I have some oversight in things.”</p><p>“I appreciate you introducing us. I might not get fired after all.”</p><p>“Glad I can be of some service.” And I stared at him as he checked something on his phone, his long fingers typing quickly. A curl of black hair had popped loose, resting on his forehead. Before I had the chance to stop myself I reached out to slide it back, my fingers splaying through his thick soft hair. He looked up, catching my eyes. His were a deep and dark cobalt, picking up the tiny pinpricks of LED light on the elaborate roof of the car that shone like stars.</p><p>“If you continue touching my hair like that, we might not make it to our reservation at Babette. I may throw you over my shoulder and up the lift to the room.” A sharp smirk stretched across his lips. He’d said it so sternly, in such a deep and gravely tone to keep Brady from hearing, which caused my stomach to shoot to my throat. I swiftly tumbled into a ball of nerves, like I hadn’t felt since we’re been in the car hours before.</p><p>“Would that be the worst thing?” I asked in a whisper, and I let my hand fall from his hairline down to his thigh. It was hard, so muscular although his limbs were incredibly lean. I let three of my fingers slide down the extent of his leg, as he flexed under my touch, abruptly ridged as rock from my touch. </p><p>“I’m really not hungry,” I said as my nails reached his knee cap, and I settled my palm there. “Not for food, anyway.”</p><hr/><p>“Dominic Radcliff will be in the lounge at two. We have barely thirty minutes. That’s absolutely not enough time.” William had my back shoved into the cold brass railing of the elevator, and he pushed the words in a deep and husky whisper into the thin skin of my neck.</p><p>“Not enough time for you? Or for me?” I asked in a breathless huff. My hands had slipped underneath his coat and his blazer, and I frantically moving my fingers along the lean muscles of his back and abdomen over his cotton shirt as his lips traced down my cheek and neck.</p><p>“Not enough time for me.” He tugged at my hand as the doors opened, and he pulled his key from his back pocket. “I’m glad I didn’t check out and had Marianna hold the room. Saves us time having to get new keys and all.”</p><p>The heavy door clicked open. I stumbled in behind him, nearly losing my balance as he pushed me backward with force towards the sectional sofas. He stopped me just in time before I fell back down the two carpeted steps that led to the sunken living room. He seized my waist, tucking his fingers between my jeans, sending my body reeling from the heat and coursness of his fingers on the soft skin of my stomach. His face pulled back from my lips, looking harsh and serious, totally distracting me from the energy of the moment we’d found ourselves in.</p><p>“Tessa, I have something to confess,” William whispered in a murmur, searching out my eyes. His were suddenly darker, slate grey and blue, as though a thick slab of ice had formed over his pupils.</p><p>I didn’t speak. I felt I had some idea what this might be about. He’d probably be telling me his full name and job title, and he reasonably feared I’d be unhinged by the revelation. I drove my heels into the shag carpet, steadying myself for his monologue. I needed to feign shock and awe, and then we could get back to actual business.</p><p>“As much as I want to, and I do.” His hands moved off my body, settling on his own hips instead of mine. “I cannot have sex with you. Not yet, at least.”</p><p>My mouth shot open, in equal parts confusion and shock. It wasn’t at all what I thought he would say. </p><p>“Although all I want to do is slip you out of these jeans and your sweater and carry you to that terrible peacock bed, I just can’t do that yet. I'm afraid I need some time.” </p><p>“Actually that’s not what I was expecting you’d tell me. I figured it would be something work-related, William. Or should I call you Mr. Hiddleston?”</p><p>He sighed slowly, staring up at the ceiling as he spoke, “Christ, Tessa. I should have said something sooner to you about who I am." He slid one of his large hands through my hair and rested it behind my neck. I couldn’t look at him. I felt his eyes, blazing down at mine, but I knew if I met them I might not be able to speak.</p><p>“I thought you’d tell me who you actually are. That you own this hotel. That you own ALL the Hiddleston Hotels.”</p><p>His hand left my hair and snaked through his own in a restless gesture. “Tessa, I’m so terribly sorry I didn’t fill you in from the beginning. My title isn’t a topic I’m very comfortable discussing, and my position is something that I actually can’t stand bringing up with new people. I didn’t want to feel like I’d spoiled things between us. We've been getting on so well, like a house on fire.</p><p>"So often people completely change tunes when they find out who I actually am. It’s no excuse, just an explanation. I’d planned to tell you before we met Dominic Radcliff downstairs. I don’t want this to change things in the slightest, now that you know who I am.”</p><p>“It doesn’t change anything.” I lied, and I bit my lip, feeling how chapped and raw it was against my tongue. “It just is a little weird you didn’t mention it sooner. I mean, you had a hundred times to tell me. I don't get why you didn't say this last night."</p><p>“I’ve no excuse. Really, I don’t. How can I tell you how sorry I am?” His hand nudged my chin gently pulling my gaze up to his. God, he looked good, with his dark eyebrows squinting down at me, his cheekbones sharp, and his jaw unusually tight. That same twist of hair had come un-slicked from the rest, and my hand again drifted up to right it. </p><p>“Don’t tell me how sorry you are, Mr. Hiddleston.” I pushed off the thick carpet to close the distance between our mouths. “Why don’t you show me?”</p><p>“That, Ms. Taylor, I can do.” His velvet kiss pressed into my lips, as he picked me off the ground and carried me down the few stairs into the sectional sofa. My back fell into the damask weave, as he threw cushions and pillows away in a frenzy, clearing space for my body and his.</p><p>“What about Your designer, Mr. Radcliff? Won't he be downstairs in a few minutes?” I said in a whisper. His hands shifted my sweater off and I felt my nipples harden as his hands grazed them and I began unfastening the buttons of his starched shirt. </p><p>“I’m his bloody boss. He can wait on me.”</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Funny Business</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Punctuality for Dominic meant arriving at least five minutes ahead of the appointed time. Being Type A was one character attribute that made him so damn good at his job, and no doubt led to him racing up the ladder with my company at break-neck speed. I found him just where I’d expected, sipping an espresso in one of the front booths of the lobby bar's lounge. His laptop was powered on, next to a leather folio pad just waiting for him to commence taking copious notes.</p><p>Tessa wasn’t with me. She’d looked such an absolute disaster, with hair tangled and spread out against the colorful cushions, makeup smudged and cheeks pink and flushed. It had been excruciating leaving her in such a state. But I’d hurried out the suite, so one of us would be on time at least, and instructed her to freshen up a bit and come downstairs when she was ready. I could still taste her chapstick, I mused, as I ran my finger along the corner of my mouth, remembering how warm her skin had felt against my hands and the sounds she'd made as we'd kissed deeply on that sectional until it was time for me to leave her.</p><p>“Dominic-good to see you.” I gripped his hand, instructing him not to stand as I slid into the tufted leather bench across to join. He was a good looking chap, and with ashy blond hair slicked back from his angular features and tortoise glasses framing steel-colored eyes, he made a noteworthy entrance in any room he came through. Dominic was dressed to the nines, as usual, in a sharp suit and expensive tie, looking every bit the part as a designer should, and I saw the waitress give him a double take from behind the bar. She was definitely barking up the wrong tree. I knew Dominicand his partner had been happily married for years.</p><p>“Likewise, Mr. Hiddleston. I was glad to get your call for a face to face.”</p><p>“No need for formalities today, Dominic. Please call me Thomas. Ms. Taylor should be arriving at any moment. She is, uh, apparently running a few minutes behind.” I adjusted the lapel of my blazer, suddenly aware that it had been sticking straight out. “I see you've gotten an espresso. Hope it wasn’t too much of a bother for you to get here on such short notice. And in a snowstorm no less.”</p><p>“Oh no, not at all. Paul and I live just a few blocks up off St. George Street. Took me no time to get here on foot.” His eyes widened as he stared at me, and I sensed from his crinkling brow something was amiss. He motioned his hand towards his own chest as he went on, “It looks like some of your, uhm, buttons aren’t properly buttoned.”</p><p>I looked down, realizing he was right. I quickly undid the top three. In my rush out of the suite and away from Tessa, I’d somehow fastened my second button in the third hole, leaving my shirt a twisted and discordant mess.</p><p>“I can’t believe I’ve been going around all day with my shirt like this. Thank you for letting me know.” I buttoned them correctly as I laughed. It was a lie, of course, I hadn’t been going around all day. I’d been fastening my shirt in the damn lift seconds before and I got the distinct impression he knew it. But if he did realize I’d just been in the throws of some wildly romantic necking session, and that was the real explanation for my unkempt appearance, he didn’t let on. Instead, he pulled the cognac colored folio in front of him, writing something in a long scratching hand with his Mont Blanc pen.“Oh, no worries. So Ms. Taylor will be my primary contact on this Q2 renovation I presume? And we’re using her firm for all fifty-eight legacy properties?”</p><p>“Yes, all of them," I lowered my voice an octave to get into a business mode of sorts. "I believe she’ll be handling this personally. Her boss is Candice Wyatt and the partner, so I assume she’ll have some involvement also. In fact, Ms. Wyatt might be coming in after this snow melts, possibly Monday morning. What’s your availability look like then?”</p><p>“Wide open next week. I’ll be free anytime.” His grey eyes caught something behind me, and his lips curled into a slight smile. “I believe Ms. Taylor has arrived. Is that her?”</p><p>I craned my neck over the booth, catching sight of a completely stunning woman I barely recognized. Tessa had combed her tangled hair, pulling it back in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She’d switched out of her jeans and sweater too, into a tailored grey blazer and creamy silk blouse with a matching pencil skirt. Black tights cling to her muscular thighs, delineating her calves and black heeled pumps that clicked rhythmically on the parquet floors as she swiftly moved towards our table. I was confused at first. I'd only left her ten minutes before. How she'd made such a marvelous transformation was beyond me, and seemed almost supernatural. </p><p>“Uh, yes, that is her I believe?” My tone was a good octave higher than I’d intended it to be, and my answer had inadvertently trailed up as a question.</p><p>“You sound like you aren’t so sure." His voice split with a muffled laugh.</p><p>I launched out of the booth, expecting her to slide in beside me, but instead, she stood a few feet back, keeping some distance between myself, and Dominic.</p><p>"Good Afternoon, Mr. Hiddleston,” She said as she moved to the edge of the booth and pushed her small hand out. Somewhat befuddled, I took it, shaking vigorously as my eyes trailed down to her sweeping frame to her high heeled pumps. My tongue felt as though it was glued to my mouth, and sensing the awkwardness, Dominic shot to his feet as well.</p><p>“This is Ms. Tessa Taylor.” I finally announced, more to myself than to Dominic, as though I was making her acquaintance for the first time. I was utterly transfixed. Her polish, her poise shone through the dim light of the lounge. She was a thousand miles removed from the girl I’d met in the plane and spent the last twenty-four hours with. Whoever <em>this</em> Tessa was, I could not look away. For once, she’d made me feel somewhat excited, and a surge of nervous energy washed up my spine as though I was a schoolboy meeting the attractive new substitute teacher.  </p><p>“Oh please, call me Tessa." She set her black leather briefcase on the table, and dragged a wooden chair from the adjacent four top, sliding it to the end of the booth. “Please, both of you sit.” She unzipped her bag, pulling out a slim laptop and propping it up before she took her seat. Her posture was sharp, angular even, as she crossed those legs, and I saw just a hint too much nylon-wrapped thigh as her skirt slipped up. As if she read my thoughts, she reached down and tugging the hem to a respectable length.</p><p>From there, Ms. Taylor took the reins, quite literally, giving Dominic and myself her full and unabridged pitch. She was flipping through swatches of patterns and custom weaves on PowerPoint, going over price points, quantity minimums and graphs, and tables, too. She was on point in every sense of the word. Razor-sharp, with a crisp answer to any question Dominic raised, and he furiously jotted down notes, nodding with approval and interjecting when needed. She was utterly transformed, the only vestige of the old Tessa being that sparkled purple paint on her fingernails. Checking out, I let my eyes roam over her, staring at her glossy nude lips, imagining them pushing into my neck, along my abdomen, and down my stomach towards my...</p><p>“Thomas?” Dominic cut through my racing thoughts and my eyes moved from Tessa’s decolletage. I’d been caught, and he gave me the hint of a grin as he repeated his question. “I was just saying, Thomas, that you’ve been quite keen on sustainable fabrics and eco-friendly materials on all our renovations. Everything Watson &amp; Wyatt does is sustainable. Isn’t that good news?”</p><p>“Oh, yes. Quite right Dominic. We’ve been shifting towards reducing our carbon footprint as much as possible. We’ve a five-year plan, to reduce waste while harnessing green energy sources wherever we can. Recycled fabrics, well, that’s smashing and is right in line with our goals as a company.”</p><p>“I’m so glad to hear, Mr. Hiddleston. That’s one reason we are starting up this Geneva plant is to focus on recycled fabrics." She shut her laptop, giving me a raised brow that seemed to put me in my place. She was running this meeting, and I snapped back into line.</p><p>"Well, it sounds like we’ve covered as much as we can to start. I’m really looking forward to this, Dominic.” She fished her card from the pocket of her briefcase and handed it over to him.</p><p>“Please, take my business card. Feel free to reach out with questions after you’ve spoken to your team. And I’d love to set something up next week if you’re available. My boss may be flying in, and we’d like to strike while the iron is hot.”</p><p>“Yes, sounds excellent, you staying through next week,” I mumbled, catching her eye for the briefest moment. “Say, does Tuesday work for everyone? Dominic, that should give you a few days to get with your team and work up next steps. Tessa, this storm should be cleared by then, your boss shouldn’t have difficulties catching a flight Sunday or Monday. And I’ll go ahead and extend my reservation here through the week. No need for me to rush back to Paris just yet.”</p><p>“Works for me.” Dominic packed up his folio sliding his laptop into his briefcase and threw on his heavy coat after he stood.</p><p>“Splendid. It’s a date then,” I said, suddenly aware I’d chosen probably the worst possible words for a supposed business meeting. “I’ll have Timothy block off all Tuesday in my schedule, for uh, this meeting." </p><p>"Oh, and Thomas," Dominic piped up. "I wanted to mention that some of us in Design and Marketing try to get together every quarter or so, and I’ve arranged a table for our little group at Sketch at seven this evening. Nothing too fussy, just drinks and appetizers and desserts. Significant others are coming, so you can finally meet Paul if you decide to drop in. Might be good of you to make an appearance, for moral and all. That is if you don’t already have anything planned for the evening. And Ms. Taylor, of course, you would be welcome to join. I can connect you with some other contacts in the design group at HIHG ahead of Monday. And the more the merrier, as I always say.”</p><p>“Sketch?” Tessa exclaimed. For a split second, I saw the Tessa I’d come to know peaking through from this worldly businesswoman who’d entranced me for the last hour. She looked positively inspired like a spell had been broken, and she reverted for a blink into the woman I’d knocked over on the jet bridge. “As in, that insanely gorgeous restaurant no one can get a table at that’s all pink velvet and rose gold? <em>The</em> <em>Sketch</em> that had the Architectural Digest cover a few months ago?”</p><p>Dominic laughed heartily, “Yes, that’s the place. I’ve a friend who’s one of the investors. Dropping his name was the only way I was able to manage a reservation.”</p><p>“Well, definitely count me in. I’ll be there at seven on the dot!”</p><p>Hands were shaken as Dominic promised to reach out, he would probably be CC’ing everyone in the bloody company on this change in vendors. Tessa stood and watched him walk on, smiling as he moved towards the gilded doors to leave. Once his back was to us, she kicked her kneck back, moving it from side to side, like some boxer who was finally relaxing after clocking an opponent in the ring. Her small hands moved down her waist, smoothing her skirt, and she pushed the chair she’d stolen from the table next to us back into place. She sat, sliding into the tufted leather booth, taking off her blazer and laying it along the back of the bench with a drawn-out exhalation.</p><p>“Well, that was stressful! I usually like more time to prep for things like that. I hope I wasn’t too unprepared.”</p><p>“Unprepared?” I undid my second shirt button, suddenly feeling too constricted in it. It was hard to catch my breath as I stared at her. She’d been, for lack of a better word, flawless in delivery. Fierce in execution. The girl was a businesswoman to the bones, and the old line from Working Girl popped in my mind. Like Melanie Griffith, Tessa too had a mind for business and a body for sin.</p><p>“Well, I don’t believe we’ve met.” I slipped my hand over the table and she accepted my gesture. “I’m Thomas William Hiddleston, but my good friends call me William. And just who, exactly are you? This businesswoman who knocked not only my socks off, but clearly Dominic's as well?”</p><p>“Tessa Grace Taylor, soon to be Vice President of Textiles at Watson &amp; Wyatt." She didn't let go of my fingers, and our hands drifted, resting on the smooth wood still entwined together. “I’m sure it will be a pleasure doing business with you.” She gave me a quick wink, and my stomach knotted from it. God, she was slick. The confidence wafted off her, carried on the scent of her sweet and sugary perfume. Something floral with notes of honey, maybe gardenia?</p><p>“Why are you smiling like that?” She nudged her head in my direction and leaned forward putting her cleavage on full display for me. </p><p>“I’m just impressed, is all. Really, Tessa, you were brilliant. I had no idea you had that side of you.”</p><p>“I can turn it on when the need arises, but It’s definitely not my natural state. It’s just really exhausting to be on point like that for too long. I feel like my batteries completely die the second it’s over. Like now. I need an espresso and some food, and I’m not sure in which order.”</p><p>“That’s right, you must be famished. Let’s head upstairs to Babette. We’ve missed our reservation, but perhaps they can work us in."</p><p>“I bet you can pull some strings, Mr. Hiddleston.” She bit her lip, and my cock twitched as I watched her curved silhouette slip out from the table. “You’re name is on the freaking building.”</p><p>“Too true." I rested my hand on the small of her back as we slipped towards the lifts. It would be a real problem, I reasoned, pushing the second-floor button for Babette instead of fourteen. At that moment, all I wanted to do was take her upstairs, get her out of that damn pencil skirt, and finish what I’d started. </p>
<hr/><p>“What do you recommend?” Tessa asked as she took her seat, having just stepped away from our table to call her boss and relay the good news of our successful meeting with Dominic. The menus were so tall I could just barely see her shapely eyebrows over the top of the thick cardstock as she scanned it.</p><p>“In all honesty, I recommend everything. I found this chef outside Nice a few years ago, and I was so taken with his tasting menu, I pulled him into the HIHG orbit. He started off as a sous chef at Brasserie - that’s at my flagship Paris Hotel. Then I moved him to London as the executive chef here. The Butter Seared Scallops are phenomenal. Duck Confit is fantastic as well. I’ll probably have the Seared Ahi as my main. I’m suddenly quite famished, so I’ll get something to start, probably the grilled muscles.”</p><p>“I was looking at the muscles, too.” she sat the menu down and took a sip of sparkling water. Her face looked suddenly tense, taught, and centered as she stared at a small succulent that sat on the white linen between us.</p><p>“I’ve no doubt you have a great deal to do between now and our meeting Tuesday."</p><p>“I'm afraid I do. But Dominic provided so much fantastic information, I feel like I can tailor this ahead of time. I’ll get with our accounting group to run some numbers, operations also while I’m at it. And I bet Candice will have a million little other things for me to look over before it’s all said and done. The creative stuff, well that’s the fun part. I’ve got so many ideas on that front. I’m sure Sunday and Monday I’ll be totally swamped working up a full pitch. You guys have audio and video right? I’d love to do a full presentation.”</p><p>“Yes, we’ve audio and video capabilities,” I said with a laugh. Christ, she was plucky. It was rather fun seeing her like this, wound up so tightly over the prospect of my business. But I didn’t want the next few days - Saturday and Sunday - to slip by without some dedicated time just the two of us. And with this gathering at Sketch, and her boss coming in Monday, I needed to tie her down figuratively. And maybe literally, I mused.</p><p>“Well, let’s make some concrete plans then for ourselves, just you and I. It sounds like you and Dominic have an engagement tonight, so I should probably arrange a brunch with you tomorrow before you’ve filled your dance card so to speak.”</p><p>“And just why wouldn’t you come tonight? He invited you first, after all, you’re the CEO. I won’t go unless you do too.”</p><p>My pulse throbbed in my temple as I imagined a night out with colleagues. It had been my experience in my ten years as CEO, and my years before when my dad had run the business, that people were totally uncomfortable around me in any sort of social setting. The knowledge that I was their boss, or probably their bosses' boss three times removed kept laces tight and mouths clenched. I figured the actual fun wouldn’t occur until I’d made the rounds bidding farewell and exited the building. Then, people would unwind and let down their hair, but certainly not before.</p><p>“It’s really best for me to avoid those sorts of interactions with subordinates, Tessa. No one has any fun when the boss comes 'round. Everyone’s too preoccupied with making a favorable impression, and it ends up being a bust for all involved, I’m afraid. I'll hate it, they'll hate it, everyone will end up hating an otherwise enjoyable outing.”</p><p>She looked slightly put out like I’d bruised her feelings somehow by turning down the invitation.</p><p>“I’d very much like to see you go on without me though. Seems like Dominic will be a good contact for you and you can connect with some of the team beforehand. Doesn’t hurt for you to be rather chummy with my team since you’re now a contractor and all. Maybe we can meet downstairs for a nightcap when you’re finished and you can fill me in on everything I missed? I know those girls in Marketing are around your age and regular lushes. You’ll get on quite well with them, I suspect.”</p><p>“So, I’ll be staying through next week. Candice told me to go ahead and expense a room here, and she’s getting a reservation for herself also. I guess I will need to move out of the Wexcroft Suite and let you stay on your own. I’m not sure how pleased she’d be to find out I’d been shacking up with you, now that you’re a client, so we should probably keep all of this just between us.”</p><p>I swallowed, detection her trepidation as she imagined just how to navigate these waters that were suddenly tempestuous and turbulent. It was quite good news for her, that she’d landed such a potentially big account for her textile firm, but I sensed something else was hovering under the surface. It was time to define the relationship, so to speak. And although I still had loose ends to tie up, actually only one loose end with Vivian, some reassurance was no doubt what the girl wanted to hear. I looked around the dining room which was relatively empty. We'd completely missed the lunch crowd, and it seemed as private a place as any to have such a confidential conversation. </p><p>“Quite right.” I paused, taking a pull from my water as her eyelashes fluttered up to the ceiling. I lowered my voice as I went on, “I want to make sure things between us are clearly defined. This does change things since HIHG is going to be a client of your firm. And I totally agree, you’ll need your own quarters for the duration of the week.”</p><p>“I’ll go to the front desk right after this and see about moving rooms. Surely something has opened up by now.” </p><p>“Seems the best course since you’ll have your privacy to work, ironing out all these particulars, and I won’t be distracting you."</p><p>She didn’t meet my eyes as she took another sip, her mouth turning slightly as she fidgeted with the crisp napkin in her lap after she set down the condensation beaded glass. I felt slightly guilty, delivering my comments with no emotion. It was working, and I let the silence stretch on between us to prolong her agony. I felt terribly cruel doing it, but I knew the payoff for my dramatics might be worth it in the long run.</p><p>"But, I do want you to slip back between the hours of ten and six to the fourteenth floor. You’re not sleeping a night without me when you’re here.”</p><p>“Are you sure? That doesn’t violate some sort of HR code with your company? I just don’t want people to assume the only reason I got your actual business was because of…funny business.”</p><p>“HR,” I let out a rolling laugh, as I imagined alerting Clive, our mousy HR Manager, about my developing entanglement. Tessa wasn’t an employee, not in a technical sense so there truly was no conflict if I was comfortable with it. He’d probably have me initial some waiver and shove it in an overstuffed file. Really, there was no impropriety. And even if there was, it was my call to make. I signed Clive’s paychecks, after all, and not the other way round.</p><p>“For your sake, we’ll keep this quiet. Strictly professional if that’s what you prefer. I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself when your boss and my team are nearby.”</p><p>“And what about when they aren’t?” I felt her tiny foot settle against my shin, as she snaked it against my pant leg under the table cloth. She’d slipped out of her black heel, and the soft weave of her tights glided smoothly across the wool of my trousers until it landed a most precarious resting place.</p><p>“When they aren’t nearby, I’ll do my absolute worst. Is that a deal, Ms. Taylor?”</p><p>“Deal.” She smiled wickedly, revealing her teeth pearly teeth that unraveled me like a ball of old yarn. Christ, the girl was beguiling. I was in a world of trouble, and I had to settle things with Vivian as soon as I could. It would be impossible for me to keep myself off Tessa another hour, let alone another few days. </p><p>As if on cue, the phone in my pocket began to vibrate. Something twisted in my gut, and I knew it was Vivian before I saw her name flashing on the screen. A fridge cold pumped through my veins as I stared down. I stood, quickly tossing the napkin on my chair.</p><p>"Order me the muscles to start. And, maybe a bottle of white wine if you'll have some also. I'll just be a moment." I moved briskly out the double doors and past the hostess stand. The reception area was empty, and I leaned against the plastered trim-work of the wall as I answered.</p><p>“William?” Her voice sounded strained like she was in some sort of wind turbine. I could barely hear her above the noise of our connection.</p><p>“Vivian, where are you. I can hardly hear a thing."</p><p>“Sorry, I’m in the tube. I’ve just come into London on the train for Camille’s Birthday Monday, and I thought now was as good a time as any to have our talk.”</p><p>“A few month’s overdue, I’m afraid," I said with a grunt. "I’m free this evening after seven. If not then, it will have to be sometime tomorrow or Sunday.”</p><p>“Do we really have to do this in person? Can’t I just lock up the flat and mail the keys to Timothy for him to sort out? You can come round at your leisure to collect your things. Really, William. It’s only a handful of suits and some toiletries. Nothing you can’t live without. Actually, you've been living without those things for months.”</p><p>A sharp pain twisted in my chest and my pulse raced. Hearing her voice, so familiar and yet so far removed, was terribly difficult, which was something I hadn’t expected. We’d known each other for years - since we were children. Long before we’d been engaged Vivian had been my last call of the night and my first in the morning. I’d missed her through these months, and regardless of what had happened with Hem and between us, I feared I always would.</p><p>“I don’t give a damn about the bloody flat, Vivian, or my suits. If the flat was all that concerned me, I wouldn’t have called so many times. I just want to have this discussion in person and nail shut the proverbial coffin. I’ve met someone important, and I don’t want to move on with this until you and I are able to speak. After over twenty years of knowing one another, I feel that’s the very least you can do.”</p><p>I was startled by my own words once they'd slipped past my lips. Had I met someone, of any importance? Was Tessa <em>important</em> to me? Surely I wouldn’t have said it if I hadn’t meant it. But it was certainly too soon to tell. I’d barely known her forty-eight hours. It took some paints longer to dry. Christ, I felt conflicted by the whole mess, and I wanted desperately to tell Tessa of this whole predicament. Maybe in due time, I reasoned.  But for now, Vivian and I needed an ending before anything new could begin.</p><p>“You’ve met someone?” she asked, her voice suddenly softer over the line. “Well, I’m actually thrilled to hear that, William. I really am. That sort of changes the tone of everything. I assume you’re staying at the Royal H? How about I come round, meet you at Lobby Bar around six on Monday? Camille’s dinner is just down the block at Coquette. I can head straight there after we speak.”</p><p>“And you’ll bring the ring?" I asked in a mumble, remembering that final piece of business we had between us to settle. "I hope you don’t assume you can keep it. It’s sentimental value to me far exceeds anything fiscal, since it was Grandmother’s stone.” I fought to keep my breath from catching as I'd said the last part. My Grandmother had absolutely adored Vivian, which had in many ways colored my opinion of her as well. But, she'd passed peacefully in her sleep the year before, happily believing Vivian and I would be married and having babies by now, no doubt. Hopefully, she had more pressing matters to attend to in the afterworld than fussing over my love life. Grandmother was a wonderfully good woman, who would have wanted the best for me and the best for Vivian. And it seemed we weren't the best for each other anymore.</p><p>"Of course, William. I'll bring it with me. It hasn't been mine to keep for quite some time."</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. On Top of Things</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Name on the reservation?” a hostess with a choppy platinum pixie cut and cheetah print blazer shouted at me over the low rumble of the front room. I’d pushed my way up to the host stand, feeling like a bumper car as I collided with people along the way. It was shocking so many wanted to venture out in this weather. If I’d been back home, the whole city would have curled in to hibernate after so much snow.</p><p>“It’s under Dominic Radcliff. It should be a pretty big group of people,” I shouted, overemphasizing each syllable of his name in the hopes she would hear me as my eyes jumped around the jam-packed bar area of Sketch. I’d changed into a dark grey sweater dress under my puffer coat with my boots back at the hotel, but the girls here in skin-hugging miniskirts, diamond-studded lobes, and too-tight designer frocks put me to shame. They all outdressed me in spades. </p><p>Men in tailored jackets and printed pocket squares squeezed past the entrance, pushing up to a marble bar top glittering with martini glasses, copper mule mugs, and crystal tumblers. Coral colored paneling, no doubt pre-war but elaborately painted, soared up to an ornate coffered ceiling, and potted palm trees set against mirrors rested along the walls. The mercury glass mirrors softly reflected several enormous chandeliers that looked like they’d been lifted from a French Chateau. For a split second, I wondered if I’d wandered into some Parisian salon instead of a swanky London restaurant off Regent Street.</p><p>I struggled to keep up with the hostess’s mile-long fishnet legs as she wound through several crowded dining areas, each more elaborately decorated than the last. My neck craned, picking up hunter green floral fabrics, splotches of colorful art, and crazy wall installations that I whirred past. She took a hard left without any warning, rounding the last corner past a paneled entrance into a room I recognized on sight. Pink overload was all I could think, as I stared up from the peachy granite floor tiles to tufted booths trimmed in rose gold and upholstered banquettes, and the wall color that matched perfectly in shade. It was like slipping into some sorbet dream, and the hairs on my arms stood up on end from the overall effect.</p><p>“Ms. Taylor! I’m so glad you could make it.” Dominic's deep voice shot to me over the commotion as we arrived at a long table with a booth bench along the back and a dozen velvety pink chairs on the opposite side. He leaned in, kissing me on each cheek before pulling away. His cologne was divine. I hadn’t caught it at our meeting earlier, but now, I almost didn’t want to back away. He smelled - and looked - like some glossy model from a Tom Ford fragrance ad in Vogue.</p><p>“This is my husband Paul. Paul, this is Tessa Taylor. She was in on that meeting with Thomas earlier.”</p><p>“Very pleased to meet you.” Paul clutched my hand with a firm shake. The two men made an incredibly dapper couple, both blonde headed with angular features and well over six feet in height. They were the sort of pair I would have craned my neck to stare at if I’d passed them on the street thinking they were celebrities, and I imagined lots of men, and ladies for that matter, were disappointed when they found out either one of them was off the market.</p><p>“I’ll quickly make some introductions,” Dominic announced as he picked up a bottle of water off the table's edge. “Everyone, this is Tessa Taylor. We’re using her firm, Watson &amp; Wyatt, for sustainable fabrics on the new Q2 remodels. Make her feel at home, would you?” He began pointing down the seats in order from closest to farthest away, spouting off names and titles as he went, listing junior designers and significant others, a few seniors, several girls who looked in their late twenties from the marketing group, his two assistants, and a handful of colleagues from corporate accounting and legal who’d tagged along. In all, there were at least twenty people, and I grinned broadly while in my mind, I desperately tried to catalog names with faces. He’d recited them so quickly, I knew I’d be asking each person again who they were and just what they did.</p><p>“Hi everyone,” I said in a pitch a little too high, and the group beamed or gestured a friendly hello before resuming their boisterous chatter. It was just a little intimidating since it seemed everyone from the Hiddleston International Hotel Group was uber good-looking. It was as though they’d all been herded off a catwalk. Not that I was expecting anything less from a company run by William. He no doubt led by example.</p><p>“What’s your poison?” Dominic's husband Paul asked as he gestured for me to take the seat beside him and he took a sip from the paper straw in his cocktail. It was something pinkish and frothy in a crystal coupe. The drink matched the velvet banquette along the wall and the paint color, and I thought I might have to copy him and order one for myself.</p><p>“I’m usually a vodka soda girl. But tonight I might have a cocktail. Actually, what you’ve got looks pretty good. What is that?” I set my clutch on the white marble tabletop and hung my puffy coat on the back of my chair. It was a relief to be out of it, and I didn't feel too out of place now that I could actually put my arms down.</p><p>“This is a Gin Fizz Flamingo. Name is frightful, but the taste isn’t half bad, although I don’t think I could have two in a row.”</p><p>“What’s Dominic drinking?” I watched him now leaning into the ear of a girl at the far edge of the table after he'd migrated there. Whatever he’d said sent her into a fit of giggles, and her thick black curls flew back over the chair in an exaggerated toss. </p><p>“Oh, Dominic actually doesn’t drink so just water for him tonight. He’s been sober for eight years last summer.” </p><p>I bit into my lip. Suddenly sensing that I should have kept my question to myself. My uncle was in recovery and thirty years sober. If Dominic was in a similar place, it was a sensitive topic and wasn’t any of my business to pry.</p><p>“Good for him. And I’m so sorry to have brought that up. I shouldn’t have asked,” I backtracked. Sensing my discomfort Paul shook his head and grinned broadly, attempting to lessen the awkwardness for me.</p><p>“Oh, absolutely no need to apologize. It isn’t a deep dark family secret. He and I are both very proud of his recovery story. He’s got such a strong personality, type A and all, he can’t do anything only half-way. The same was true for alcohol I’m afraid, so he avoids it altogether. Now, he’s perfectly comfortable coming out socially without being tempted to fall into old habits. He still goes to several AA meetings a week.”</p><p>A waitress glided up next to us, or I guessed she was a waitress although in her nude-colored cocktail dress and red-bottomed heels, she looked more like a customer than a staff member. Paul gave her a slight nod as she approached, silently signaling we might want to order another round of drinks.</p><p>“I’ll switch to a Heineken after this and he’ll have another water.” He pointed to Dominic at the other end. “Our newest arrival wants to try this flamingo concoction, I believe.”</p><p>“Yeah, I guess I’ll have what he’s having." I fished my credit card out from my bag and attempted to hand it to the waitress. Her hands stayed cemented to her sides, as she stared blankly at the blue plastic. </p><p>“We’ve table minimums like I was sayin' to the group when ya sat down. And no separate checks.” Her accent was thick, and I wondered what tiny UK Hamlet she'd come to the "big city" from. Her accent definitely didn't match the rest of her, but it was hard to tell what she actually looked like under all that airbrushed makeup and skin-tight satin. She gave Paul the hint of an eye-roll from under exceedingly thick false lashes, before heading towards an accountant in the center of the table, waving frantically to catch her attention.</p><p>“You heard the lass. This entire tab is going on Dominic’s company card.”</p><p>“Oh, I hate not paying, since I’m not technically an employee. I'll slip you some cash before I leave, but I think all I have are Francs from when I was in Geneva. I really just wanted to see this place in person, it’s as incredible as I thought it would be.” I tucked my card back in my purse.</p><p>“Keep your Francs, honey. I can’t imagine your cocktails tonight will make any dent in HIHG’s bottom line. If they do, I’ll instruct Dominic to mail you an itemized bill.”</p>
<hr/><p>“Thomas certainly seems enthusiastic about this new remodel,” Dominic yelled as he hunched over the table towards me. He'd wedged in next to Paul and one of the marketing girls, and after my third Pink Flamingo Fizz, and a shot of some terrible lemon liquor a Senior Designer had practically forced me to take, I was feeling very comfortable with the table. Everyone I’d chatted with so far was friendly, inquiring about what I did and my life back in Chicago. I had a good stack of new business cards in my purse, and I got the sense it was a very tight-knit group, which was a good thing. I'd found it was easier to work with people who actually liked what they did.</p><p>“To be honest,” Dominic continued, as he scraped off a sliver of gruyere from the cheese board in front of us and topped it on a pear slice. “I’ve never seen Thomas take such an interest in the design aspect. He typically focuses on bigger ticket items, such as the new builds and acquisitions. Financials, revenue streams and shareholders and all that seem to be more his cup of tea. Our little department takes the backseat, so it’s been rather refreshing seeing him so involved with my work all of the sudden. I’ve been trying to get him to sit in on meetings for years, but somehow you’ve managed to do what I haven’t. Really, Tessa, I must learn your secrets.” </p><p>I took a sip of my fizzy drink. I had a pretty good idea what my secret was, and it wasn’t anything to discuss in polite company. William had taken an interest in the design <em>side</em> because he had an interest in my <em>backside</em>. If he’d met Brant Douglas, a balding fifty-something Operations Manager from Watson &amp; Wyatt on the plane, I felt certain he wouldn’t have given a damn about our sustainable textile weaves.</p><p>“Mr. Hiddleston seems like he’d be a great boss.” I redirected, working to project my voice over the chit-chat of the table.</p><p>“That he is. He’s incredibly good at what he does, and he expects that sort of commitment to professionalism from anyone at HIHG. When I first met him when I’d just started as Junior Designer, I was a bit concerned. He was so young when he took over from his father. True, he’d been in the shadows since university, but at thirty, well, that’s young to be taking the reins of an international conglomerate. And those were very large shoes to fill that his father had left. There was a great deal of apprehension in the whole company, that he being the son of the CEO might fall short.</p><p>“But, in typical Thomas fashion he went out of his way to prove everyone wrong. He spent over two years floating between roles to literally work his way from the bottom up. He started off as a janitor then cleaned rooms with housekeeping for a few months before he worked the front desk at the Imperial in Paris. He was even answering reservation lines at the home office for a spell before jumping into the accounting side, just so he could truly understand every facet of this business. I admire him immensely for that. We all do. He worked damn hard for the respect of his company instead of expecting it outright.”</p><p>I swallowed and my stomach rolled, realizing I’d been so transfixed on what he was saying, I hadn’t bothered to close my mouth. What a thrill it was to hear this guy go on about Thomas. Like I was peeking behind some secret curtain, and seeing him a totally new light.</p><p>“You sound like you're very loyal to him, and to the company. That’s rare these days.”</p><p>“Yes, terribly loyal I’m afraid, but we all are. It’s why positions with this company barely come available. He promotes from within and no one wants to leave once they’re here. He can be a bit, oh what's the best word, cold I guess. Sometimes his bedside manner leaves something to be desired. But it doesn't mean he doesn't care. Quiet the opposite."</p><p>Something warm puddled in my chest as Dominic’s words settled. Yes, I knew I liked William. What wasn’t to like? He was quick, funny, handsome as hell. But listening as someone else, a man so respectable and the head of the company's entire Design Group confirming what I’d been thinking all along, well that carried more weight than I’d thought possible. William wasn't actually a bad guy, although I hadn’t thought that the first time I met him. And he was an excellent boss, obviously for Dominic to talk about him like this. It almost seemed too good to be true.</p><p>“My god, speak of the devil. Me rattling on about Thomas seems to have summoned him.”</p><p>My eyes darted to where Dominic had turned, catching glimpses of William through bobbing heads of guests as he wove around the tables towards our corner spot. His hair was slicked, looking blue-black in the dim lighting. A grey plaid scarf was tucked in his jacket, and I could spot bits of snow on his shoulders, gleaming like tiny prismatic crystals. He caught my eyes, giving me a slight smile as he removed his heavy kid gloves and approached.</p><p>“So good of you to make it!” Dominic let out as he shot to his feet, extending a hand that turned into a back pat of some sort between the two.</p><p>Dominic’s long fingers cupped around his mouth as he yelled, “Everyone, it's time to quit having fun, the boss has arrived.” The whole table craned their necks down towards our end, grinning, waving, and shouting hellos at the CEO who’d decided to grace them with his presence. I sat up straight, glued to my seat, and unable to move out of the tufted folds, feeling attached to it as I watched like some voyeur. William shook hands, squeezed shoulders, and gave a few fist bumps as he looped around, greeting every damn employee by their first name until he arrived at Paul. I barely remembered everyone in my tiny firm. How he was able to keep all these people straight was a complete mystery.</p><p>“And you, I assume must be Paul. Heard so much about you from Dominic. I think I saw you from a distance at the Christmas Dinner but didn’t have a chance to chat. Glad we finally can get the opportunity to get acquainted.” Paul shot up from the chair beside mine, gripping William’s hand across the thin table and shaking firmly.</p><p>“Dominic didn’t think you’d be able to join! So glad you could.”</p><p>“I am too, although I was rather tied up all evening, after that meeting we had. Tessa, good to see you again.” He shot me a smile, and my cheeks blushed from the choice of words. After our very late lunch at Babette, we’d slipped upstairs, kissing like teenagers in the back of a borrowed car, until the cab Thomas had called for me arrived to take me to Sketch. I’d been fixing my smudged makeup in the backseat until we'd arrived and suddenly I wondered if everyone else from HIHG could tell I’d been making out with their boss all evening.</p><p>William slid into the end of the booth across from Paul and me, and I felt my cheeks reddening from the sight of him. He’d changed shirts, probably because his button-down had been a wadded up wrinkled mess on the floor after I’d peeled it off of him. My hands started to fidget, as though they should be touching his skin any time we were in the same room. It was almost funny, how totally consumed my thoughts were from the guy. If we had barely gotten past second base, how would I feel once I’d actually slept with William?</p><p>“Sorry to have pulled Dominic away from you earlier today, in a snowstorm no less. I hope you and you’re dogs weren’t too upset he had to join us for that meeting.”</p><p>“Oh, no worries at all. I was actually released to have him out of the house for a bit. I can’t get anything done when he’s around,” Paul said as he tended towards William. “Plus, it sounds like it was quite a good meeting the three of you had. Dominic was busy working up notes after he got home.” The girl next to Paul nudged him, showing him something on her phone, leaving William's attention squarely on me.</p><p>“I’m just so pleased with this new relationship with Watson &amp; Wyatt.” William’s eyes settled on mine, looking unusually dark. The lighting suddenly darkened, as though our waitress had gotten a little too eager with the dimmer switch. The music cranked up too, blasting bass as the restaurant made some marketable shift from restaurant to club.</p><p>“And Tessa, I’m especially eager to get in <em>tightly</em> with a sustainable firm and have a dedicated point of contact who’s so <em>willing</em> to meet our needs. It sounds like you are very keen to cater to my every desire.” He popped a grape in his mouth of the cheese board, giving me a wink I hoped to god Paul, and the girl beside him hadn’t seen. My mouth went dry, and I took a big gulp of my fuzzy cocktail to try to combat the flush.</p><p>“Sorry to talk shop. I just can’t seem to stop thinking about all the ways I can, uh, utilize your unique skills moving forward. I <em>love</em> knowing you'll be on top of things."</p><p>If Paul heard the flagrant stream of innuendo streaming out of William’s mouth over the music, he didn’t let on. He started into some story with the girl next to him about Dominic working too much and a vacation they were planning to the South of France, and I totally checked out from there. William’s eyes were glued to mine, as he stripped himself out of that expensive coat and casually threw it over the chair back. His hand shot up, massaging some kink in his thick neck as he looked at me, and I wanted to hop over the table to rub it out for him myself.</p><p>“Drinks?” Our waitress approached, spotting William, and making a b-line like some bird of prey to cuddle in beside him. She dipped towards his ear, putting the low cut neckline of her satin cocktail dress on full display as her bleached blonde hair cascaded, practically framing those expensive tits of hers. I let out a long huff. It seemed every other woman on the planet was competition, and as interested in William as I was.</p><p>“Can I get you something, sir? Maybe a vodka martini? Or, you look like a whisky man to me. We’ve a Suntory Yamazaki that’s completely divine. I had a taste earlier, and it’s still swirlin' around on my tongue.”</p><p>William gave her a dismissive glance before thrusting forward in his seat. “Sparkling water for me, thanks.” He struck up a conversation with the guy next to him, some accountant, and I felt strangely triumphant from his outright dismissal of that tart. I bit into my lip to keep myself from smiling like a crazy person.</p><p>“So, how long will you be staying? Into next week?” Paul listed in, setting his empty drink on the marble-topped table as he did.</p><p>“Not sure. My boss hasn’t told me what her return flight is, but it will probably be a red-eye Thursday. I think that's what she mentioned earlier.”</p><p>His eyes lit up, and he began poking Dominic, who was typing something furiously with both thumbs, suddenly honed in on his phone. “Dominic, Ms. Taylor isn’t leaving until Thursday night! Are there any more tickets for the Wickworth Foundation’s Children of the Arts event?”</p><p>“Yes, I believe so. Since it’s a weeknight, a Thursday so not as many in our group are able to attend as we’d initially hoped. I think we've three extra tickets. I was going to have Prianca in reception send an email office-wide so they don’t go to waste.”</p><p>“What’s this about tickets?” William piped up over the music, adjusting a silver cufflink on his perfectly pressed sleeve. My eyes lingered, noticing a vein that ran from under his sleeve along the top of his large hand over his thumb before disappearing into his palm. God, everything about him was wildly sensual to me. And I made a mental note to move my fingers, maybe my tongue against the top of that vein in his arm when I got the chance.</p><p>“Oh, just that Wickworth Children’s Art Gala we get tables for every year. Afraid we’ve got some extra tickets since it’s on a Thursday for some reason.”</p><p>“First I’m hearing about this.” William’s brow furrowed, glancing at me. “Shall we give two of those tickets to Tessa and her boss? If they’re free, that is.”</p><p>“Oh, that's very kind, but actually I think we’ll be flying out that night. Candice had mentioned something about booking the red-eye. Sounds fun though.” I fidgeted with my necklace, pulling it out from under my sweater dress. There was no way in hell was going to be able to get a gown, shoes, and all that for a Gala. The blazer and skirt I'd worn earlier was the most formal thing I had in my suitcase.</p><p>“British Airways or United?” William asked as he began typing on his phone, and his eyes darkened as he glanced up at me, expecting me to know off the top of my head what carrier Candice had in mind.</p><p>“Well, I’m not sure. She has points with American and the credit card.”</p><p>“That’s a codeshare for British Airlines. All part of the One World Alliance. The last flight to O’Hare leaves at midnight. Ten after twelve, actually. That’s plenty of time to make the event, change, and get to Heathrow. I’ll have Brady take you both in the Bently.”</p><p>His voice was as sharp and deep as a jagged cliffside, and this wasn't a friendly invitation anymore. This was a command. My stomach spiraled. Getting ready for a Gala sounded stressful in the most favorable of conditions back home, let alone when I was in another country, managing an insane project for work simultaneously. I had a feeling Candice would jump on that sort of thing. She probably had planned on packing some Carolina Herrera gown just for emergencies like this. But for me, the prospect seemed terrifying. </p><p>“I’m really not sure about that, I need to call Candice and-” </p><p>William cut me off, leaning back against the plush pink velvet of his chair. “Splendid. What a perfect opportunity for us all to get better acquainted. Dominic, save that last ticket for me, would you? I’ll be making an appearance as well."</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. We're Not Talking About dessert...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Was that so bad?” Tessa twisted into me for warmth. I slung my arm around what I assumed was her waist, though it was difficult to feel much under the thick down of her jacket. </p><p>She’d stolen away from Sketch first, saying goodbyes with Dominic and the rest of the group and shaking hands after she’d given me a rather obvious head nod motioning towards the exit. And like some sort of spy, I’d let a few minutes drag out, snaking my eyes through the room, noting the time on my Omega, just to be sure no one was paying much mind before I’d done the same. Surely, Dominic and Paul suspected, as I did catch smirks drifting between them as I’d stood to make my getaway. But, the two were a rather stoic pair. Dominic was astonishingly loyal to HIHG and to me, and in all my years working with him, he’d never been a purveyor of gossip in the workplace. Loose lips sink ships, after all, and I wished for Tessa’s sake more than my own that the both of them kept any suspicions of our dalliance to themselves.</p><p>“It was actually quite enjoyable. Were you very surprised to see me?”</p><p>It wasn’t snowing, but a thick sludge was beginning to harden again on the edges of the sidewalk in places not peppered with coarse salt, and I felt as though I’d gone into a kitchen’s walk in freezer as the air hit my lungs. But, the sight of Tessa, leaning casually against a wrought iron lamp post just down from the door had thoroughly distracted me from the sudden chill. The thought of her skin, hot and soft and supple and yielding she’d felt only hours before, as I’d pushed her yet again into that damned sectional, that took the bite of the winds right out of me.</p><p>“Not really. I had a feeling you wouldn’t let me out of your sights for too long. So where are we going now? I don’t have any bearings in this city, but I think the hotel is probably back the other direction.” Tessa tucked her hand in the pocket of my coat, wrapping around my middle. Something clenched in my stomach from the sensation of her so near to me. Inches of winter clothing separated us, but the mere thought that she was so close lit a flame in my chest. It was like a match to newsprint and I fought off strong desires to bring my lips down to hers right then and there on the cold and sludgy sidewalk. </p><p>My eyes moved up, squinting towards the streetlight we were approaching as I realized we’d moved farther than I’d thought. I’d totally distracted from the feel of Tessa as we’d trudged aimlessly down the block. We were on the corner of Conduit and Regent. Surely, we weren’t right next to Bell’s. That was too much of a coincidence to let slip by. But the steady rhythm, reverberating up from the sidewalk confirmed my suspicions. One of my favorite spots in the city was just up the block.</p><p>“Do you see that hint of a red sign just ahead?” I motioned towards the glow of neon recessed in a basement walkup two buildings down.</p><p>“Sort of….What is that place?”</p><p>“Well, you did say you like dive bars. What about dive bars with live jazz?”</p><p>“Jazz?” Her face scrunched and furrowed as her eyes faced mine with hesitance. “I hate to break it to you, William. But I’m not really a jazz sort of girl.”</p><p>“That's certainly not a deal-breaker. Truth be told, I don’t usually care for it either. Not as though I’m on the treadmill listening to Miles Davis or anything. It’s more about the atmosphere at Bell’s. And something about sitting a few feet from the performers in this little basement hobble, well, I think you’ll enjoy it. And if you don’t, I’ll summon the Uber to take us back to the Royal H. Shall we give Bell’s a try?”</p><p>She paused, sidestepping a good meter away and breaking the contact. I felt like a magnet, hovering just above metal, and I resisted the urge to pull her back into the crook of my arm. “Well...I am freezing. And I don’t see anything else around here that's open. So lets at least go in to warm up for a little bit before we head back.”</p>
<hr/><p>My leather boots crunched jagged bits of pavement salt as I followed Tessa down the slim steps. Bell’s was subterranean, the entrance hidden away under a flight of stairs at the cellar level, cleverly concealed from the street with a few long skinny windows along the pavement emitting a fiery red glow. I settled my hand on Tessa’s shoulders for purchase, just in case she had a similar incident as the jet bridge and abruptly fell backward without warning. As she shoved open the door, the music hit me like a brick, all saxophone and brass horn against the smooth taps of a flat metal brush on the drum. The percussion echoed, vibrating down my spine, rattling in my ribcage, until I felt more than heard the rhythm. Tessa said something I wasn’t able to make out over a blaring trumpet, and I clutched her hand with some force, taking the lead and snaking us through thick clusters of tiny round tables to a small corner two-top hugging the posterior wall. It was one of the few seats available, as the place a veritable petri dish of diversity - stuffed with every age, creed and color of humanity who shared a love of good music and cheap drinks. The décor was just what I’d remembered. Black Berber carpeting smelling of cigar smoke extended against peeling red and charcoal striped paper. Victorian era gold sconces with white paper shades curled out from the corners, bathing the place in a soft glow. The beamed ceilings were precariously low and lit with red bulbs giving the illusion we’d crawled inside some kind of turn of the century opium den. I was glad to see it hadn’t changed a bit since I’d been a visitor perhaps a decade, and a lifetime before.  </p><p>“What were you saying?” I over-emphasized my pronunciation, making certain if she couldn’t catch what I’d said she could at least read my lips.</p><p>“Just that this place is packed! I had no idea so many people would come out to a jazz bar in a freaking snowstorm.” She unzipped herself out of her bulky coat, revealing a light grey sweater dress that embraced each dip and curve in her petite frame, as though she’d been painted into it. She turned her backside to me, positioning her jacket on the slender metal of the chair, and my eyes narrowed in on a slight crease in the cable knitting where the waistline of her tights stopped in the center of her lower back. I wanted to rub my hands right there, feeling the intersection of skin and nylon hosiery beneath. But we were in quite a public place, I reasoned, and I made a mental note to run my fingers along that line when we were at the hotel.</p><p>“These guys are actually really good.” Tessa slid into the seat and propped her elbows on the table, giving a slight nod towards the small stage in front of us. At least fifteen tables stretched in front, and I scooted my chair slightly, to glimpse a rather portly gentleman in a purple felt fedora who seemed to be leading the group via trumpet. He flung back abruptly, hitting a streak of high notes and breaking off into a solo of sorts. The chap and drums accelerated, changing the tempo to match the brass. The men on base, piano, and saxophone quite literally didn’t miss a beat, improvising their beats on cue to equal the sudden shift in tune. It reminded me of those starlings, whose murmurs sink and swirl and weave forming patterns through the sky, without any instruction to the rest of the group and in precise synchronization. </p><p>“Are you going to get something to drink? Or are you sticking with water tonight? I noticed you didn’t have anything at Sketch.”</p><p>“I’m officially off the clock now, so I might indulge. It seems a good night for a martini.”</p><p>She slid her hands through her dark hair as she drew the bulk over her shoulder. “I wasn’t sure if you weren’t drinking because it was a work thing, or just because Dominic doesn’t.”</p><p>I was quite surprised she knew. Not that it was any great secret, but Dominic’s recovery was an exceedingly personal matter, not something I expected he’d have discussed having just been introduced to Tessa, and with her being a potential contractor no less. Probably Paul was the one who told. And if he was the gossip of the family, I worried if he’d slip up about Tessa and my flirtations at the table. It was possible our little secret might not stay that way for long. </p><p>“Well, both to be honest. I don’t like to drink around co-workers. Not something I make a habit of doing unless I’m at some dedicated wine tasting or a formal event. And certainly not when Dominic is present, knowing about his struggles and all. What’s the old line from Hamlet? I don’t want to cause him to stumble?”</p><p>“I think that’s actually from the Bible,” she said as she casually waved her fingers over the flame of a crimson votive between us. “That’s really considerate of you, William. I mean it. My uncle, he’s been sober for thirty years or something. It’s a lifetime battle. I sometimes worried growing up that I had the gene and was just predisposed to be like him, but thankfully I haven’t had any issues with alcohol like he did. If someone said I couldn’t drink for the rest of my life it wouldn’t be the end of the world.”</p><p>“I feel the same," I said, as I took of my jacket and draped it over my seat. "My grandmother was somewhat of a lush. Nothing unmanageable, but she’d have a gin and tonic for “medicinal purposes” at breakfast. My father, well, he takes after her drinking too much on occasion. And thankfully I haven’t followed in either of their footsteps.”</p><p>“So you mentioned your father is living outside Bath?” She extended her other hand towards the small candle for warmth, which looked rather comical. Like she was over some tiny rubbish fire. “Are you two very close?”</p><p>Close was difficult to quantify in my family. My father’s praise was something I’d tried and failed to earn, although the farther up the ladder I’d risen, the less encouragement I'd received. Even when he handed over the keys to the kingdom and named me his successor, it was done more as the means to an end for his retirement to begin, and not in any way attributable to my talents. It seemed as though I was available, an Oxford grad, and breathing, and those were qualification enough to leave the running of things in my charge. Any accolades or awards I occasionally won were met with cool indifference on his part, usually nothing more than an “I see” or a “very interesting” if he was feeling saucy. I sometimes felt as though I was perpetually a twelve-year-old boy, shouting for dad to take notice of me over his newspaper. </p><p>“Yes, he’s at the family estate when he’s not traveling or on a golf trip. He’s a rather business-minded man, although now it seems golf and his newest wife is occupying most of his energy. But we get together every month or so. And he’s still on the board, so it seems I can’t escape him. Some men seem to soften in their old age, but not him. I’m afraid he’s every bit as sharp as he was before he retired.”</p><p>“My dad has definitely softened in retirement. Around his middle primarily, and just in every other way. I think my sister’s children have charmed him. I’ve never seen him as happy as when he’s around my niece and nephew. He loves those kids. I do too.”</p><p>“And how old are they?” I thought back on the photo I’d seen, remembering they’d been young, clearly both under ten if memory served me right.</p><p>“Daisey just turned six, and Tate’s four. They’re old enough to be somewhat self-sufficient, but still young enough to be perpetually excited about everything. Seeing the world with them, well, it’s sort of magical. It's enough to make me want some of my own.”</p><p>Her eyes dipped, pinpointing on the small flame on the table, and the hint of something rather melancholy rested on her features. I wasn’t sure if it was discussing her father or the mention of children that had sunk her mood to the depths, but one of those topics had markedly changed the timbre. I hadn’t asked and she hadn’t yet told me her exact age, although I felt it was somewhere between twenty-nine and early thirties if I had to wager a guess. It was surprising that a successful, attractive woman such as herself, wouldn’t be married with a growing brood like her sister. I wasn’t comfortable asking why, but the question simmered like a saucepan in my mind as I watched her. </p><p>“Drinks for the two of you?” A younger chap in a black turtleneck with a mop of shaggy red hair approached, leaning low to listen to us over the strumming bass and blasting sax. </p><p>I extended a hand towards Tessa, ladies first after all. “I’ll just have a vodka soda, well vodka is fine,” she said. Her eyes rested back on the candle without meeting mine.</p><p>“Well vodka?” I interjected. It was quite surprising, she’d be ordering something more akin to rubbing alcohol than a proper spirit. I shook my head vehemently, as though the girl had requested a flaming rum punch.</p><p>“Yeah, well vodka is perfectly fine for me.”</p><p>I balked on, settling my back into the chair and raising up a bit in defiance. “She’ll have Grey Goose and soda. And I’ll do a Grey Goose Martini. Dirty, if you don't mind."</p><p>The waiter gave a head nod, slipping away from our table to the bar area. It was all old onyx colored wood, glossy black from years of touch-ups to the paint, and I wondered just how many Martinis had come from behind it. Probably thousands, I figured. And I set my eyes back on Tessa as she spoke, “You know, well vodka would have been alright. You didn’t need to change my order.”</p><p>“Well vodka is absolute rubbish, Tessa. Maybe that passes in <em>Muleshoe</em>, but here you’ve got to be more specific. Something well would be more suitable for wiping down the tables.”</p><p>“And that clearly hasn’t happened here in a while,” she quipped, curling her nose up and motioning towards a dried smear of something sticky on the glossy surface. “You don’t have to be so...bossy. I don’t really appreciate you ordering for me when I know damn well what I like.”</p><p>Her choice of words, well, that was too obvious a lead-in to let slip by. I couldn’t resist taking the bait, and I pitched forward dipping towards her as I asked in a low octave, “And just what do you like, Tessa Taylor? And I don’t mean to drink.” </p><p>I watched those lips, full and red curl into a budding smile that almost clocked me out of my seat. Her eyes seemed to smoke, darkening into a smoldering shade of hunter’s green. Her voice was soft as she started, and I could barely hear the words over the sudden uptick of the drums and pluck of the bass.</p><p>“You’re too far away for me to pick up a damn thing you’re saying.” I leaned in, gripping the underside of her chair, and pulled her towards mine until the brass legs clinked together and she was practically in my lap. She’d almost tipped out of the seat since I’d been too forceful, but as she overcorrected, leaning her shoulder into me and draping her arm across one of my legs to steady herself. My breathing hitched up in my throat. The heat of her, so close, thawed any cold I’d felt from our jaunt outdoors. And to my relief, she didn’t move her hand from my thigh. She kept it there, firmly gripping just above my knee as she pressed her mouth towards my neck. The warmth of her breath rushed over my skin and under my collar and trailed down my chest like crackling static.</p><p>“I like getting lost somewhere new. Not paying attention to street signs and turning a corner to find some cozy coffee shop I never would have found online. I like getting up early, before the sun is out, and that tingling uncertainty of what my day could turn into. I like a good book, that sucks me in so deeply it plays out in my mind more like a movie than actual reading,” She took a breath, pausing, “And I like having my hands on you, William. I just can't seem to quit.”</p><p>Her small fingers splayed, snaking down my leg landing precariously close to a visible indentation beneath my trousers. I watched, slack-jawed and incapable of movement, as that purple nail-polish sparkled, shimmering in the dim red lighting, drawing my eyes like a beacon on a stormy coast. It took every ounce of self-restraint not to grip her by her slender wrist and set that hand on top of a part of me that was hardening as swiftly as the ice outside. </p><p>As if on prompt, the ginger headed waiter appeared with a silver shaker and glass for my drink precariously balenced in one hand and Tessa's vodka and soda in another. Her fingers flew off my thigh and I crossed my leg, hoping to Christ the poor waiter hadn’t seen our blatantly public display of affection. The wide smirk on his face told me had, and I re-arranged in my chair, bending forward as I propped my elbows on the sticky table.</p><p>“I've a well vodka martini and a well vodka soda,” he said with a chuckle. “Just kiddin’, it’s the good stuff. Grey Goose all around.”</p><p>“Brilliant, I said, as my eyes fell on the ajacent table in front of us. A thin sliver of chocolate cake, so dark it looked almost black sat between two women. I didn’t usually indulge in sweets, but tonight with Tessa, I felt the urge. “And, we’ll have one of those desserts as well.” I nudged my chin up in the direction of the chocolate concoction. </p><p>“I’ll see if we’ve any left. Seemed they went pretty quickly right before you two arrived. Let me go and have a look." He strained my martini through the silver head of the shaker and set both on the table before slipping away.</p><p>“I actually had dessert at Sketch before you showed up. It was this really good lemon-lime tart thing, so I’m afraid that chocolate cake you’ve ordered is all you.”</p><p>“You’re allowed to have two desserts, Tessa. I’ll give you a special dispensation.”</p><p>“The second one of something is never as good as the first. It’s just sweets overload. I’ll just sip my vodka soda, thank you very much.”</p><p>I took a pull of my own beverage as I stared down at her, feeling the liquid snake down my throat, sending a shiver down into my chest that wasn’t only from the alcohol. Heat pooled hot and thick in my stomach, almost viscous. I wanted the girl. And my lust couldn’t be disguised any longer. </p><p>“It’s been my experience that sometimes the second is even better than the first.” </p><p>Her eyes caught mine, burning up towards me as I set my glass on the table. “The first, well, it’s a solid start, but it’s the next one, and the one after that you should be pursuing. </p><p>“Why do I get the feeling we aren’t talking about desserts anymore?”</p><p>“Because we’re not.” I snaked my fingers through her thick hair, pulling it up like lifting back a drapery panel as I leaned into her ear. I took in the smell of her conditioner and her perfume that was so sugary, I wondered if I could taste it if I were to work my tongue across her. I felt her neck pricking, raising with tiny mounds of gooseflesh that seemed to spread to my own skin as I grazed hers.</p><p>“The first time you’ll come for me, it’s got to be slow. Achingly slow, so when you finally climax, you’re building up to a second already. I’ll be just as deliberate with that one, taking my time, giving you exactly what you and I both want. You’ll come for me at least three times, Tessa. First from my fingers pushing under your pantyhose as we neck on that damned sectional. Then from my mouth, after we’ve stumbled back to that abominable peacock bed and I've gotten you splayed out on the duvet. Then from my cock, as I drive into you so deeply you’ll have forgotten you’re own bloody name, but not mine. No, you'll be screaming my name by the time I've finished.”</p><p>As if on cue, the waiter hastened back to interrupt. I peeled my eyes up, letting my hand slip out of Tessa's hair. She looked startled, dazed, and dumbfounded even as she gawked up to me, and I worried I'd probably taken things a bit too far. I wasn't casually flirting with her anymore. This wasn't light-hearted innuendo. It was an invitation to cross a line in the sand, and I'd made my true intentions exceptionally clear.   </p><p>"Sorry, we've just run out of the cake I'm afraid. You just missed the last slice."</p><p>Tessa's eyes centered on mine, smoldering as I watched her exhale. She swallowed weakly, and I followed a blush streak over those perfectly rounded cheeks as she spoke, "Actually, you can just bring us the check. It sounds like we'll have dessert back at the hotel."</p>
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<a name="section0015"><h2>15. All a Blur</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“How about this one?” William grumbled, his hand switching furiously along a rose-gold wall panel in the inky darkness of the suite.</p><p>“No, That’s the Wet Bar.”</p><p>“This one?”</p><p>“Hallway.”</p><p>“This one?”</p><p>“Sputnik chandelier…but you’re getting warmer.”</p><p>“I'm at the last one. So this better be it.”</p><p>“Ding, Ding, Ding!” I squealed as the hearth flicked on. We were back at our room as William turned on switches, searching for one to light up the artificial fireplace after our perilous journey to the Royal H. We’d been unceremoniously dumped from an Uber that smelled more like cheap weed than any car legally should. The driver, some kid with a shaved head that looked more a fashion choice than actual baldness, had been sucking the entire trip on a comically large neon vape, blowing stinky puffs of smoke that coiled like rancid tendrils along the roof to the backseat. I lifted the ends of my hair to my nose, worried I could still detect that stench on myself, but thankfully I breathed in a whiff of William’s cologne instead. </p><p>We’d been kissing on the sidewalk outside Bell’s, holding hands in the back of the car, and when he’d thrust my backside into the bronze metalwork of the elevator, I'd just about snapped any connection to the outside world as my lips were lost in his. It had barely registered when we’d landed at the fourteenth floor, and in a heady trance, I’d gripped his long fingers, following blindly along the dimly lit hall. He could have led me off a cliff and I’d have stepped off without a care - I was trapped in such a dense fog from the touch of him, the raspy depths of his voice, and those words he’d murmured into my neck that were as smooth as drawn butter. </p><p>We hadn’t discussed anything after I’d abruptly asked for the check. The course was plotted, we both knew where the night would lead, and my breathing jumped as I imagined him and that smooth skin on top of me, under that peacock feather headboard. I simmered, thinking about his squared jaw dipping into the soft skin of my upper thigh as his mouth explored my most hidden places. I could still hear his words ringing in my skull over the piercing jazz riffs that had seemed to collect in the rafters of that old club.</p><p>“Can I get you anything?” William slipped over to the wet bar, taking a water bottle from a cleverly recessed fridge that looked like just another black lacquered cabinet. “We’ve water, an assortment of teas, espresso, or can I make you something stronger since we didn’t finish those drinks at Bell’s?”</p><p>I bit hard into my lip. He’d haphazardly discarded his coat and blazer in the foyer on the back of a slim chair, and had rolled his sleeves up his forearms, revealing lean, taught muscles that traced underneath the starched seams of his white shirt. That vein I’d seen early at Sketch bulged somewhat, snaking under his skin as he twisted the cap off the Evian bottle. Good grief, everything about him was sexy, I mused, sliding my tongue over the top of my lip as I watched on.</p><p>“I’ll just have a sip of yours.” I unzipped myself from my coat, feeling a rush of cold air as the warm insulated bubble I’d been in burst. The room wasn’t exactly freezing, but it was a few degrees chillier than I would have preferred. I made a b-line to the fireplace after avoiding that sunken living room drop-off that was as perilous as the Grand Canyon with me in my too-tall boots.</p><p>The electric logs glowed, disbursing heat that sent pricks of goosebumps up my arms as I extended them out, searching for warmth. Red and orange flashes danced across William, casting long shadows on the walls as he stalked towards me. His eyes picked up blips of flam, like he was some predator in the darkness - like Robert Redford in Out of Africa, hunting...Merel Streep?</p><p>I fought the urge to burst out laughing. I was a little tipsy from the drinks at Sketch, probably that shot of lemon liquor the Lead Designer had practically forced down my throat hadn’t been the best idea. My face must have given away my internal musings, and he casually bumped his hip against mine as he joined me in front of the fire, passing the water to me as he asked, “And just what’s so funny?”</p><p>“Oh, nothing,” I lied. Unwilling and unable to clue him in on just how obscure my movie references could get. I took a sip of the water, feeling the cold pool down my throat before I gave it back.</p><p>A nervous tension buzzed between us, as we stood there in silence, neither one quite sure what the next move would bring. I wanted him to touch me, to pull me out of my dress and tights. But nervousness pricked up my spine. I hardly knew William. I was lost totally in lust for this man I’d barely known forty-eight hours. </p><p>I quickly did the math, confirming that’s all it had been. It felt like weeks, maybe months had passed since the train to Paddington Station. Was I really ready to cross that threshold? I still had an idea there were things he hadn’t told me - secrets I didn’t know. I was keenly aware of just how much I liked him, squirming from that pit of my stomach neurotic attraction that couldn’t be bottled or explained. But, would crossing over into a physical relationship screw all of it up? Especially when my work, my livelihood, was on the line? This was dangerous territory. For my heart and also my job. I’d mixed pleasure and business, and how that would play out felt as mysterious as the next cards in the dealer's deck. </p><p>“Is everything alright, Tessa?” He pushed out one of his hands, mimicking my stance in front of the fire. “You look rather...melancholy all of the sudden.”</p><p>“This new project with your company. Well, it’s just a lot to think about.” my voice trailed off, as I stared down at the hexagons woven into the carpet and our two shadows that had molded into one against the print.</p><p>“A lot of work to think about?"</p><p>“It’s not the workload. I mean, it’s going to be a very big project for fifty-eight properties. But that’s not what I’m talking about. It’s just, almost too good to be true. Meeting you, and everything that’s happened. It’s just the perfect comody of errors- like I cooked all this up in my head.”</p><p>“So “perfect” is a problem,” his back stiffened as he took a long pull from his water. My eyes darted up, catching the sharp outline of his Adam's apple rise and fall in his thick neck. I wanted to run my fingers across it. How William managed to look freshly shaven at all times was a mystery I was included to solve.</p><p>“I’m just worried about working with you, that’s all. Tonight, after meeting everyone with the team at HIHG, and really getting a sense of how connected you and I will be once we start up this Q2 project. It’s new territory. I’ve never had a…” I paused, unable to use the word “relationship” when that wasn’t at all what this was. We weren’t really dating, exclusive, or seeing each other officially. Hell, it took some fabric dyes longer to cure than I’d known William. Using the “R” word so soon would only send him running to higher ground.</p><p>“I’ve never had a fling with a client before.”</p><p>“Fling?” his eyes hit mine, dark and serious for a long moment, and I worried I’d picked the wrong word. “What exactly do you mean by fling?”</p><p>I fought hard to swallow, searching for some exit out of this corner I’d painted myself into. He was inscrutable - staring at me flatly and with all the expression of a medieval saint. I didn’t know if it was an over-exaggeration or an under that had offended him. I had no clue which way to spin this. </p><p>“You know what I mean...I’ve never crossed that line with anyone I’ve worked with. It’s a little bit stressful. That’s all.”</p><p>“Would you be more comfortable if I cut off involvement altogether?” His speech was stern, business-like. It was as though he’d morphed into a commentator on the BBC. </p><p>“If you think that’s best.” My shoulders slumped, and I fought the urge to crawl under the lacquered wood of the coffee table. This was much more casual than I’d imagined if he just wanted to cut ties with me and not pursue anything else. The mere mention of it stung.</p><p>“It’s not what I think, Tessa. I want to do what’s best for you. And if that means staying out of meetings, leaving this all to you and Dominic, then I’ll happily step back. Truth be told, I don’t give a damn about bloody fabric. I just like the idea of seeing you in my office, as this fiery businesswoman who takes no prisoners and is so - oh what’s the Old West saying? Quick on the draw? But if that’s too difficult to navigate, you should work with Dominic and his team and I’ll stay removed from matters completely.” </p><p>My heart sputtered, picking up in a steady swing I felt in the thin skin of my collarbone and somewhere else, down low in my stomach. It was a throb, an ache that clouded my judgment, maybe even my vision. And realizing William wasn’t finished with me, that sent my pulse off like a racehorse out of a springing gate. </p><p>I had no control of my limbs, as my hand roamed up, landing on the skin visible above his collar. I turned into him, rubbing my thumb along that tender flesh of his throat as his hands settled on my hips, snaking around my middle. His thumbs pressed into the spot where my pantyhose ended, and I realized I'd probably had some terrible muffin top this entire night he was trying to smooth out. But the low mumble, more like a groan, that vibrated out from his throat told me otherwise. He liked what he saw, and felt, and those fingers pushed in so hard I wondered if he’d leave a bruise in the small of my back.</p><p>“Tessa, I want nothing more than to stop talking and get you out of this damned sweater dress. Can we make a deal, and focus on the pleasure side of this arrangement if I resign myself from the business?” </p><p>I blinked, setting my eyes on his features in the firelight, looking more like one of the gleaming Greek gods I'd seen at the museum the day before. His jaw tensed, mouth pursed, looking more handsome than any man had a right to. I drove up off my heels, pressing my lips to his as his arms snaked around me with force, and I wondered if I’d float away if he were to let me go.</p><p>“Deal.”</p><hr/><p>“You’re too tall, William.” I huffed. He craned down awkwardly to plant fiery kissing down towards my collarbone. Even in heels, he towered. And we needed to level the playing field, so to speak. Things would be much easier on a horizontal space.</p><p>“I’m not too tall. You’re too bloody short,” he quipped. He lifted me off the thick wool carpet, effortlessly caravanning me down the steps until he forced me into the damask weave of the sectional. He stared at me from coal-black lashes, firelight danced off the cotton of his collar, now stained with smears my lipstick, and I locked onto that same tendril that seemed to pop loose against his flat brow anytime he kissed me. </p><p>He exhaled, his breathing labored, as he stepped back a good three feet planting some distance between us. He sat on the edge of the coffee table, his arms crossing over his chest as a smirk sped across his lips. </p><p>“Are we taking an intermission?” I huffed, driving my hands over my hair that was somehow more tangled from his fingers brushing through it. I sat up, crossing my leg to hide the bunches in my dress.</p><p>“No intermission. The show is just beginning.” He was wicked in the artificial fire, as though a thousand filthy thoughts raced through his brain while he looked at me. “Stand up, Tessa.”</p><p>I followed his instruction, pulling myself up on wobbling legs. His eyes tracked down my body, first from my lips, slipping over my neck, down my tights and thighs which were somehow exposed from the bunched-up fabric. I pushed my fingers down the cable weave to smooth it.</p><p>“Don’t bother fixing your dress, you won’t have it on for much longer. I want you to turn around.” </p><p>“Turn around? But I-” </p><p>“No questioning me, Tessa. Turn and face towards the windows.” He interrupted, in a tone so deep and gravely, I had no choice but to obey.</p><p>“Good girl. I want you to pull your dress off completely. Toss it on the floor.”</p><p>Though I was turned from him a sensual tension so thick it couldn’t drain rose like a swollen tide between us. My eyelids fluttered, my cheeks flushed, and every nerve ending between my lips and ankles seemed to ignite. It felt as though I’d been hit with some injection. Like I’d been dunked into a vat of pure heat. I left my hands trail down, pausing on my nipples that were now aching for his mouth, down my waist, across the jutting bones of my hips, until I’d reached the hem of my dress. I gripped it, and the knit of the fabric stretched as I peeled myself out.</p><p>A low groan, barely audible above the whir of the heaters, escaped from William’s chest. My senses kicked into overdrive. I was so...vulnerable. Standing, my back to him, in nothing but my heeled boots, black tights, and bra. Sure, he wasn’t the only guy to see me like this, but it felt like the first time I’d been so exposed in my thirty-four years. I had no embarrassment, no shame now like I’d expected I would. Instead, something soothing and comforting settled over me like a down blanket. I basked in the knowledge that this wasn’t for just anyone - this was for William. I cupped my hands over my breasts, feeling my nipples prick and harden before taking a final breath as the burning flush seared my cheeks. I turned with metered steps, facing him, and let my hands drop to my sides.</p><p>"Christ, you're perfect," he growled. And it was all a blur from there. </p>
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Don’t You Dare Stop</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>EEK this is R-rated. Don't say I didn't warn you!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Like a magnet on iron, I couldn’t tear my hands away from the softness of Tessa’s skin. That heat pulsing through warmed me on contact and it was all a blur at first. Hands snaking, legs bending, parted lips searching for skin until we’d settled into a rhythm of sorts. My breathing steadied although my pulse continued to race fast and unhinged like an Arabian thoroughbred. Undulating from every gasp and sigh she let slip from her mouth. Each sound told me something, where to touch her when to move, and soon, those little cries would reveal how close she was to coming for me.</p><p>But things seemed suddenly complex, like a web of possible tripwires crisscrossed my limbs. There were an exponential amount of ways to thoroughly fuck this up with Tessa. This mess with Vivian, Tessa's relationship as a contractor for HIHG, and I as her client and our drastically different personalities all gave me pause. And most of all, the literal ocean that separated our lives. She lived in Chicago, and I hovered from city to city like some sort of gypsy. A tenseness bubbled in my chest, as I thought back on Dominic and the rest of my bloody team at Sketch, and allowed their judgments to cloud my own. What would they think of me - Making love to a woman I’d retained in a business capacity? Was this any better than the countless affairs my father had carried out over his tenure? Was I any different than him?</p><p>“Is something wrong?” She murmured, cutting through my thoughts like a hot blade through tallow, and I realized I’d moved my lips from hers and was gazing off towards the fire trapped in the fog of my own thoughts.</p><p>“Yes. I mean no. Nothing is wrong. Just, suddenly I have quite a lot on my mind, that's all. I do think it’s best if we keep this just between you and me. With this work arrangement. Better to keep things compartmentalized and I’ll do my best to keep out.”</p><p>“Of course. That’s the deal. I won’t blab if you stay out of my way.” Her lips shifted into a smile, those gleaming teeth and the hint of mischief in her green eyes threatened to cut me in two. And she was absolutely right - we had just struck off a deal minutes before. I’d given a promise to divorce myself from this current venture with Watson &amp; Wyatt, although the notion of Tessa stepping a heel in one of my offices, or hotels for that matter, without me alongside sent a jealous bolt piercing through my gut. It wasn’t that I had trepidations about her with Dominic, or any other man in my company. Just the thought Tessa’s time might be monopolized by someone else pricked like a barb. I was horribly selfish, wanting to be the one holding up all the seconds of her day. Aching to cover my hands over every centimeter of her body. I kissed her deeply, powerless to sort my tangled trepidations into cohesive words. Better to focus on other, more pressing matters in the hear and now.</p><p>“Is this alright,” I asked as I moved my arms to her back, settling my fingers on the tiny hook of her bra. </p><p>Tessa moaned into my lips, telling me to take it all off her, and I obeyed, unhinging the black and nude lace and exposing her breasts to me for the second time. I worried they were tender, as I stared at marks left from the wire and coarse material which had imprinted pink indentations in her skin. I ran my hands over them, and her breasts spilled out from the confines of the cups with exuberance, as though they’d been sprung out of jail. I let my fingers roam freely over her shoulders and the delicate skin stretching along her collarbone, across those lines her bra had made before taking each of her nipples in my mouth one by one. They lifted and hardened into the flicks of my tongue, and were as sweet and yielding as peaks of stiff meringue. She was on her back rolled into the sectional, legs spread for me, wearing only those black tights that felt as fine as spun silk. I let my gaze slip down, farther in the firelight, revealing a slight crease framed by a trail of delicate and dark hair just under her pantyhose. I was desperate to run my hands across her.</p><p>“I’m topless. It’s only fair you are too." She began working on a few of the buttons of my dress shirt until she’d yanked it over my head. My hair must have looked frightfully wild and her small hands settled on my temples, splaying through to slick it back. She gave a tug sending a wave of heat from the nape of my neck coursing down my spine. She’d been rather forceful, and truth be told, it slightly hurt. I gripped her hips firmly in response, giving the girl a taste of her own medicine as my fingers dug in to her skin. </p><p>It seemed like we’d been kissing like this for weeks, months even, so much energy rested between us, it pooled in the rafters of any room we found ourselves. It was startling, and just a wee bit concerning we’d only been together less than two days. My attraction bordered on obsession at this junction. And I fretted I’d lose all my composure, any sense of direction if things were to go awry. This was unusual - so novel a feeling I felt my gut twist from the revelation. Although it scarcely made sense, I had one fear alone: I couldn’t boggle this up. I wouldn’t let her slip out of my hands I'd done with Vivian. I willed myself to keep Tessa for as long as she’d have me.</p><p>“Tessa, what do you like? When you touch yourself?” I pulled away from her, propping my body along her curvy frame and resting on my side. The re-arrangement killed two birds with one stone, allowing me to kiss her at a better angle but also keep my eyes honed acutely on just what she did next.</p><p>“Oh, I don't really know-” </p><p>“Don’t bother lying to me. You’re an absolute fox. You pleasure yourself at night when the lights are out and you're alone at your flat.” My lips pushed into her mouth, tasting the last bit of Grey Goose and soda still resting on her tongue from Bell’s. Her tongue swirled, matching mine until she let out a small cry and pulled away. She stared up, her brown hair looking almost amber in the flickering artificial glow of the electric flames.</p><p>“I’m going to watch you, so I can do the same.” I took hold of her slim wrist, thrusting her hand and that awful purple nail polish down her stomach, stopping just past the small bump of her belly button and before the elastic band of her tights.</p><p>Her eyes fluttered up, dark lashes trembling against her green eyes that had turned almost black in the darkness. “I’ve never done <em> that </em>in front of someone before.”</p><p>“Do you trust me?” I kissed her again, this time pulling on her bottom pout with my teeth before I drew away.</p><p>Her eyes caught flame, smoldering up as she whispered, “I think I do.”</p><p>"Then show me what you like."</p><p>She slipped her hand beneath the elastic, slowly moving towards her sex and I stared like some voyeur through the crisscrossed black weave of her nylons, checking my breath until she had her index and middle fingers fixed squarely atop her. They rolled in light circles, with barely any pressure, pushing over herself as her hips jutted somewhat, rolling back then thrusting up to meet the motion of her own small hand. I was transfixed, spellbound as I stared. Her chapped mouth parted, her eyes clamped tight, and she let out a stifled and breathy cry.</p><p>“Christ, Tessa, you’re beautiful,” was all the response I could mutter, suddenly painfully aware of my own erection driven into her hip that threatened to split apart my trousers from the seam. I shoved my hand down, seizing my length and adjusting it up so my head was now held securely in place against my waistband. </p><p>“I like it slow at first.” She grabbed my arm, leading my hand down towards hers under the thin elastic. It felt like the crack of a shrouded curtain. The lifting of a velvet rope.</p><p> </p><p>“Be gentle. Just right...<em>here</em>.”</p><p>Her fingers guided mine to her mound, peeling back and pushing slightly against a part of her so hot, I worried for a moment I might be burned. And my fingers moved, mimicking the cadence she’d shown me seconds before as they brushed against the soft dark hairs that framed her clit. I glided metered circles over Tessa, letting her breathing dictate the rhythm like a song. Her back arched suddenly, her eyes clamped shut, and a soft groan escaped her rising, heaving chest.</p><p>“Fuck,” was all I could utter, as I continued, feeling her contract and writhe beneath my touch. “Is this what you like, Tessa? Tell me how it feels.”</p><p>“It feels...god...it feels incredible.” </p><p>Her hips jolted up, increasing her thrusts in speed as they collided into me and I let my hand slip father down to her slit. She was incredibly wet - dripping even - and it clung and soaked into those tights and to my fingers puddling against her. I had no restraint any longer. I needed to feel her around me. And I slipped my middle finger just barely inside her warm and taut cunt.</p><p>Bloody hell, the girl was tight. Her walls gripped hard as I slid inside. Her slender neck drove farther into the cushion of the couch, and I retreated, pulling my finger out of her, worried for a moment I may have pushed too deep.</p><p>"I don't want to hurt you, Tessa. Was that too far?" I whispered into her neck as my hand settled outside her folds.</p><p>“Don’t you dare stop, William. Keep going. Farther.”</p><p>I obeyed her command, and under the circumstances I’d found myself in, I would have obeyed any command Tessa gave me. I felt a tightness clench against me as I inched inside. Her brow furrowed, her tongue traced over that delicious pout of her lower lip, and I pulled out once more. This time sinking two fingers into her folds.</p><p>She let out a cry, delicate and achingly beautiful, and I increased my speed, thrusting out and in against her body which was as wet as rain-drenched silk. I sped up, driving farther, deeper, curling my fingers against a spot set so far inside she was practically panting from my strokes. Every bit of Tessa began to contract, turning rigid in my hands as her breathing rushed through in desperate moans and frantic breaths. She was so close to climax, I could feel it. And I crushed my mouth to hers, muffling her cries with my lips as she broke apart, throbbing in steady pulses. I pushed in as deeply as I could without hurting the girl, bottoming out and holding her body as she relaxed and fell into my hand. The warmth of her exhaling breath crackled down my shoulder, sending a shiver of desire to my core. Bringing Tessa pleasure, well, it was almost as enjoyable as if I’d climaxed too.</p><p>She passed her lips, supple and tender against my neck as she pulled my hand up from her pantyhose. She brought my fingers, wet and glistening in the firelight between her lips, and I felt her tongue lapping up the juices of her flawless cunt. She sucked, shutting her eyes, swirling her tongue over my fingers that had been deep inside her literally seconds before. Christ, it snapped me apart, as I watched on, feeling the soft heat of her mouth envelop the coarseness of my fingers. I wanted to taste her as well, and I drove my lips to Tessa’s, savoring the perfection of her body, as her sweetness drifted between her tongue to mine.</p><p>“Now it’s your turn." She tore apart from me running her hands over my abdomen, scraping those purple nails across my skin as she drove molten kisses towards my length. I was as hard as granite, and like two magnets, nothing could pull me from her now.</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Trousers on or off?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You really are terribly uncoordinated, aren’t you Tessa? This isn’t just for show,” William teased with a boisterous laugh as he caught me - clutching my forearm before I tripped backward toward the stupid steps in the sunken living room. I was in nothing but my black tights, and feeling almost drunk with desire from the river of pleasure I was still riding out. I’d tried to be sexy - that was my first mistake - as I’d shifted back, tossing my tangled hair over my shoulder to shoot him some smoldering eye contact. But, those damn steps in the darkness were too difficult for me to navigate, and like the jet bridge that started all this, I’d taken a sudden tumble and ended up nearly falling to my death. My hip bumped against the top step before William’s hand clamped on and pulled me up to my feet.</p><p>“You need to tell your interior designer not to put freaking stairs in the middle of rooms!” I burst out laughing and he joined in. “If we were in the US, this would be a lawsuit waiting to happen. You’re lucky I’m not litigious.” </p><p>“Well, aren't you the businesswoman? Always scheming for any way to suck me dry,” He smirked, and the innuendo wasn’t lost. “I’ve an entire team of solicitors on retainer and I imagine they’re terribly bored at the moment. It’s been quite some time since we had a proper “slip and fall” at one of our properties. You’d be just the sort of fresh meat they’d love to eviscerate in a deposition. And, as you know now…I’m something of a voyeur. I’d like to sit in and watch your feeble attempts to explain to twelve senior partners why you’d had nothing on but your pantyhose, tramping up the steps in the pitch blackness of the night.” His lips broke into a wicked grin, as his hand managed to locate the precise place my hip had landed. His cupped palm rubbed that spot gently, like some horse whisperer soothing a startled mare. Any pain I'd experienced moments before melted from the contact.</p><p>“Do you guys have punitive damages here in the UK? We sure do back home. I’d sue for the nasty purple bruise I’ll probably have tomorrow. And a few million additional - for the emotional distress.”</p><p>“I’ll go under oath and swear on my life that you weren't emotionally distressed. Quite the opposite. You were emotionally fulfilled.”</p><p>He grasped my fingers, lacing his between my own as he tended me through the rest of the suite towards the master. “And as for that purple bruise, well, I’ll have my mouth there in a moment's time. You won't be thinking about it, after I've finished with you."</p><p>That elaborate peacock headboard glinted teal and turquoise, picking up the light reflecting in from the double-paned windows. My breath hooked in my chest, as a fresh wave of longing rippled through my ribcage. I didn’t think I'd ever been so hot for someone in my life. But William, well, he did it for me. I was dryer lint next to a lit match - explosive and ready to catch fire at any moment. </p><p>The bed was so tall I had to awkwardly jump on the edge to get on top of the thing. So much for looking sexy, I thought, as I gracelessly rolled over like some beached seal, attempting to center myself on the plush down of the crisp white duvet.</p><p>“Tights on or off,” I quizzed as I drew my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. It was a little startling, as I’d said the words, how relaxed I felt with this man I’d known less than two days. Something about him just fit, on every level, and fever pooled in the pit of my stomach from the realization. I was more comfortable with William - more myself - than I’d been with any other man.</p><p>“Trousers on or off?” His head pitched sharply as his hand drifted, gliding to the silver buckle on his belt while his eyes shot me a roguish wink. </p><p>“Off, Mr. Hiddleston.”</p><p>“Then off with your tights, Ms. Taylor.”</p><p>He approached the bed’s frame, his jaw tensed with no sign of a grin anymore. My eyes loitered, tracing away from that firm chin still smooth as glass, to his abdomen delineated with lean and taut muscles, then farther below, where his long fingers unhinged his belt, undid his button, and pulled the zipper on his wool slacks. They fell to the floor, puddling on the thick carpet as he stepped out, now only in a pair of dark blue boxer briefs that strained and hugged his tapering hips. </p><p>“Your turn, Tessa.” He adjusted himself with one hand in the stretchy fabric, pausing for me to follow his lead.</p><p>My body, well, it wasn’t what it had been in college. Years of late nights, missed workouts, and take-out dinners had taken a definite toll. I was a good twenty pounds heavier than I would have liked to have been, and my clothes fit a little too snug, although I wasn't ready to admit defeat and go up a size, or more honestly two. With any other guy, I might have had the urge to hide and slip under the sheets to let as much fall to the imagination as possible. But with William, I succumbed to none of those urges. I rested in the awareness that he wanted me - all of me. Twenty extra pounds and all. And I let my legs slide down the bed, hooking my thumbs into the elastic of my tights and rolled them off. I observed his body instead of mine, which was something I’d never done before. I realized I was more concerned with his reaction to me than confirming whether or not I looked halfway decent in the pale light slipping through the windows. </p><p>I kicked myself out of the last few inches of hosiery, as they draped across the edge of the mattress like the unfurling of a long ribbon.</p><p>His jaw pursed, brow furrowed, as those steel-blue eyes deepened like charred coals as they swept slowly over my figure. One wiry tendril of hair popped loose again, gleaming in severe contrast against his smooth forehead as he parted his lips to speak in a low growl, “You’re gorgeous, Tessa. I truly mean it. Absolute perfection.”</p><p>The bed dipped, his skin hit mine, and it was all elbows and arms, knees and teeth as neither one of us could control the attraction that pulsed between us. My breathing stopped, coming in quick bits and gasps like I was snorkeling and diving deeper then rising up to the surface for quick hits of air. His hands, god, his hands felt like they covered every inch of me simultaneously. Gripping my nipples as they hardened, clutching the flesh around my hips as I jutted into him, seizing the hair at the nape of my neck with a rigid and forceful yank.</p><p>A listless sigh escaped my throat, as his lips planted heavy kisses from my jawline, past my neck and lower still. He sucked along my rib cage, moving farther until the heat of his breathing hovered along the indentation my hose had left in the skin of my stomach.</p><p>“Tessa, can I kiss you….here?” William paused for an excruciatingly long moment, as his eyes darted up catching mine, and I’m sure I looked like a rabbit in a snare. I was his to take, and William's mouth moved farther, past my belly button, hovering just above a part of me that throbbed as fast as a racehorse's hoofs on a track.</p><p>The beats of my heart pulsated in my skull, my wrists, and ankles, but especially in my clit. Where his warm exhales hovered precariously close. He tortured me, letting the seconds stretch on. One, then two, then three counts, feeling his breaths hit like a hot blast of air against a section of my body that ached for his tongue.</p><p>“Yes,” I mumbled. Desperate to feel him on me. Unable to wait any longer.</p><p>His long fingers splayed, driving into the skin around my hip bones, as his lips pressed into my sex. His tongue traced light circles, moving and pushing me closer to climax. It seemed with every sigh and cry that I was unable to contain. It was like my own sounds drove him, telling him where to go. Directing him just where to move.</p><p>“Christ, Tessa. You taste so good.” I was incapacitated. Unable to reply, or respond or even move. Unsure exactly what date it was, what name I had, and just where exactly I'd found myself. I was plunging and slipping deeper into bliss so thick I couldn’t swim out of it. I could barely keep my eyes from rolling back and I clamped them shut.</p><p>One of his hands inched down, over the little pout along my stomach, south of my belly button, and settled at the rise of bone a few inches above my slit, framed below by black-trimmed hair. His eyes shot up, catching mine, as I thrust my hands over his scalp and stared on in disbelief. His touch was pure sugar. Course and sweet and melting over me. I’d never felt such a rush from another partner before.</p><p>“Do you like this? When I touch you right here?” He asked in a growl, and his fingers kneaded deep into the flesh just below my belly button. It felt strangely warm, some sensation totally unique and throbbing deep inside my core. I buckled, letting my eyes open from the sensation, wondering just exactly what voodoo he was working over me, as his hand massaged firmly into that place above my clit and below my belly button.</p><p>“Yes, I like that. I like it very much,” was all I could get out, as his tongue returned, running circles over my sex that beat out of my skin.</p><p>My hand flew, raking my nails over his shoulders, clutching for purchase at any skin I could find, and attempting to keep him going as he worked. Pushing that tongue into places no man ever had. Working me over from fiery nerve to nerve.</p><p>“You’re close, Tessa. I can taste it. Come for me.” His voice was a hushed rumble now, as he started thrusting two of his fingers into my slit, and pulling back and forth, in and out. My hips rolled, I couldn’t control them, as my body squirmed beneath his fiery touch. William groaned, edging me on until I couldn’t stand any more of his sweet torture. The burn of it was nearly excruciating, as William shoved me off the cliff of my own pleasure. My body shook, my walls tightened and I wilted against his lips. I tugged his hair in my hands, drawing him up until his body enveloped mine completely.</p><p>“I told you, Tessa. It’s played out just as I’d known it would all along. You came for me on that atrocious sofa, now underneath this awful headboard. Now, third times the charm.”</p><p>“You’re a man of your word,” I said in a breath. Driving my tongue into his and tasting my climax on his lips. He growled, snarled maybe, as he flipped me on top in a fluid motion, and I straddled his hip bones that jutted into the skin of my thighs. I propped up off of him, arching my back, and pulling my tangled curls behind me. </p><p>It had been over a year since I’d had a boyfriend or even a casual hookup, so I’d been off the pill for over six months at least. I didn’t have anything in my purse...not my carry-on bag either, and my mind raced, wondering if he’d have protection in his pocket, or up his sleeve.</p><p>“I haven’t any condoms on me. Wasn’t expecting anything like this in my schedule this week. But, if you’ll check the mini bar, there should be some there." He ran his hand along the muscles of his abdomen, thrusting his forearm behind his neck, revealing dark tufts of hair under his arms. It was the only hair I'd noticed on the man so far...anywhere. And the sight of it sent something hot and liquid racing through my veins. He was totally masculine, laying casually on his back with me straddling him. I wanted to lap William up like a melting cone of caramel ice-cream.</p><p>“The mini-bar?” I questioned, as I clumsily launched off his body and hopped off the bed, padding towards an extended sideboard with a stainless beverage fridge and snacks above. “Like, next to the pretzels or something?”</p><p>I flipped the lamp on, rummaged through the assortment of snacks, picking up trail mix, and ten-dollar chocolate bars until I found a discrete silk pouch set in the back.</p><p>“It’s one of those damned ‘pleasure kits’ all the hotels do now. Complete with a few condoms and some shite brand of lubricant. I don't imagine we'll need any of that, Tessa. You are rather-”</p><p>“Twenty-eight pounds?!" I cut him off. "That's highway robbery!” I stared at the tag in disbelief, yanking open the drawstring and half expecting a gold nugget to be inside for the price as I turned to face him.</p><p>“Is that all it is?” William sat up from the bed, snaking a knee forward as the outline of his erection caught in the dim light from the lamp I'd turned on. He was, for lack of a better word, massive. And I bit into my lip, imagining just what he’d feel like pressed inside me completely. “I’d pay double, no, triple that to shag you.”</p><p>“I don’t know if I should take that as a compliment. You sound like Robert Redford in Indecent Proposal.”</p><p>He stuck his hand out, urging me in the soft light to return to the bed, and I obeyed, moving forwards with the little satin sack until I’d crawled back onto the sheets.</p><p>“Excellent movie,” he mused, running a hand near my collarbone and pulling back a tangled clump of my hair. “You know, you rather look like Demi Moore. With those dark locks and that long, perfect neck. I’d probably pay a few hundred thousand pounds for a go.”</p><p>“A go with me? Or with Demi Moore?”</p><p>His lips met might as we both laughed.</p><p>“Don’t answer that. Also, if I had a price...well...you couldn’t afford me.” I shoved my lips into him, and let my hands trail down his body that was firm and taught beneath. The man didn’t skip arm day, or leg day, or any day, I reasoned, feeling the sharp lines of muscles that ran along his frame forming a sharp V. My eyes were clamped shut, as I swirled my tongue against his  perfect body that moved and shivered the farther south I went. I was frantic to get my hands on him, and when my fingers found the head of his erection, I moved delicately across him as he let out a moan so deep and gravely, I felt it vibrating up my spine.</p><p>“Is this what you want, William? You like it when you're touched right here?” I asked in a whisper, imitating the questions he’d given me in the other room minutes before. Unlike my last boyfriend, who’d barely said a word to me when we were making love, I got a distinct impression talking was a big turn-on for William. Maybe the dirtier, the better, and I pulled my mouth away from him to gauge his response. My hand extended, taking his length, or what I could grasp, between my fingers as I moved, gripping slowly down the extent of his erection.</p><p>“I like it when <em>you</em> touch me there. Don’t stop,” he let out in a growl as his lips turned into mine without restraint. I increased the speed, clutching harder as his body tensed below my fingers. He reached across me, grabbing the bag and fumbling with the satin strings until he’d pulled out a foil gold packet.</p><p>The lamp flickered off, and on, and off again as the heater, which had been whirring at full blast since we’d gotten back, cut out. It made a loud popping noise before an eerie silence settled over the master bedroom and his lips tore away from mine.</p><p>We both listened on hitched breaths - I could have heard a tick-tack hit the carpet as we both waited on pins and needles for the heat, and light, to kick back on. </p><p>“The generator should be on in a moment.” He slipped his hand through his hair, gliding that tendril back into its place. I let go of him, resting my palm on the strength of his bicep, as I planted my mouth across his neck and shoulder.</p><p>“Does the power go out a lot here? Since it’s an old building?” I asked between kisses.</p><p>“No. Never. And the generator should kick back after thirty seconds at most.” He launched out of bed leaving me fumbling to catch my balance without him, as he began flipping every switch he passed. His efforts were in vain and the suite remained dark as pitch.</p><p>“Bloody hell,” He muttered, straining down to peer out the peephole on the heavy mahogany door of the suite.</p><p>“Hallway lights are out. That should never happen, not even if we’ve lost power to every floor. It’s a fire hazard, and well, just a fucking hazard not to have emergency lights on in the building. I’ve got to go and have a look downstairs and see what the devil's going on.”</p><p>“I crawled off the bed, nearly falling off since the thing was so high. I felt the urge to cover my nipples although he’d seen them already. Hell, he’d had his tongue on every inch of me. But the prudish prairie girl who lived on my shoulder ordered me to cover up and I obeyed, cupping myself in the darkness. </p><p>“Isn’t there someone you can call? One of your maintenance guys is on it, I’m sure.”</p><p>he balked, laughing coarsely as he drove past me back into the master bedroom with not so much as the graze of a hand. “One more fucking thing I have to deal with. First this fucking storm. Then, fucking Beverly in IT and the booking system she fucked over. And now, the power now has gone to shite as well. Fuck me.”</p><p>I fought the urge to say, “I was trying to” but held my tongue instead, feeling the shift in his mood as though the temperature had dropped a good forty degrees. He was suddenly distant, stoic, as he ran his belt through his trouser loops and began furiously closing his dress shirt. I was uncomfortable around him, as though I should step out all the sudden. But it was my room as much as his, and I rested my hip into the wood of the doorway as I watched him huff around, throwing on clothing in the dark.</p><p>“Is there anything I can do?” I asked. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, lacing his boots in a frenzy. </p><p>“Not unless you’re a bloody electrician,” he huffed, before stomping past me and out the door into the sheer blackness of the hall. </p>
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<a name="section0018"><h2>18. All Hands On Deck</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm so sorry I’ve been MIA and haven’t posted in a while. I’ll be honest, I got some harsh comments here from people who don’t care for my writing style and I needed to take a break. I have the world's thinnest skin, so that kind of negative feedback was rough for me to move past. All that said, I’ve decided to get back on the horse and to keep going, so I’m back and I’ll try to get a chapter up every week or two until this little story is finished! Thank you so much to those of you who are reading along as I update and sharing encouraging comments. Reading the kind things you guys have to say has made me decide to keep going. I hope you enjoy Chapter 18!!  </p><p> : )</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The hallways were dark as pitch, glowing only from the thick red block letters marking the exits and stairwells which must have been operated by batteries of some kind. Christ, it was typical of this damned week that the power would now be on the fritz. What was next, I wondered. The Plagues of Exodus? Would the faucets soon run red with blood? Might Marianna report a swarm of locusts in the Lobby?</p><p>I half jogged down the stairs, all fourteen flights, using my cellular as a flashlight when I landed at the cramped ceilings of the basement level. Voices echoed and heels clicked ahead, alerting me I wasn’t the only one stalking towards the boiler room. I moved through the narrow hallways, built sometime at the turn of the century, feeling like Indiana Jones, traveling through some cobwebbed crypt. The catacombs smelled of peeling lead paint that should have been professionally scraped by a hazmat crew long ago. Doing it now would no doubt cost a bloody fortune. One thing at a time, William, I redirected. Nothing could be done about the damn paint in the bloody dark. </p><p>“Mr.Hiddleston,” Mariana squinted as she brought her slim hand up, shielding her brown eyes from the piercing light of my cellular. I lowered my phone, guiding it along the ground and the rest of the crowded room. Two maintenance men in utilitarian jumpers and several other janitors by the looks of them furiously aimed torches and inspected pipes on the old generator. The thing looked ancient, and dare I say it, archaic, as their lights shone and bounced off the knicked green paint and rusted bolts. Several industrial-looking knobs jutted out along the bottom flushing, and I crouched down, attempting to read lettering that had eroded at least a decade or two before. </p><p>“Good god, Marianna. This thing looks like it was around before the first world war. No wonder it’s on the fritz.” I stood, adjusting my slacks and brushing off a thick layer of dust that had attached to one of my knees as I’d crouched to the ground.</p><p>“We’ve not had any problems since I’ve been here, and it should have kicked on when the power went out. It seems the whole block is off at the moment. From the storm, no doubt.”  </p><p>A shrill voice cut through on her walkie-talkie in a garbled cockney, giving the most unhelpful of reports, “Still no power or lights at the Lobby...Over and out...”</p><p>“No bloody shit,” I mumbled under my breath as I turned off my light and dropped my phone safely in my front pocket.</p><p>“And yes, this generator looks old, but it’s been properly maintained. We’ll have it up and running in no time. Well before the power to the block is restored.”</p><p>I brought my hand to my chin, rubbing it absently, as I moved round the machine towards the posterior where two of the custodians were bent and poking around inside the casing of a recessed panel. I was no mechanic, but the bubbling sound emanating from inside certainly wasn’t a good sign. It signaled something was terribly wrong with the head gasket, and we’d need to stop the air from displacing oil out of the engine.</p><p> “Sounds like it’s a hose or a valve issue?” I asked, dropping to my knees, peering over a shoulder to the source.</p><p>“Aye, I believe that’s the problem, but it’s nothin’ we can properly fix," an older handyman confirmed. "Have to have a professional brought in to sort this out and change the hoses. We’ll have to turn ‘er off completely to keep ‘er from overheating”</p><p>“How long could that take?” I stood, propping my hand on a panel that felt alarmingly warm. Hot to the touch even, like a stove. For a split second, I had flashbacks to a Chernoble documentary I'd watched months before. Good thing this machinery wasn’t nuclear or we’d all be toast. </p><p>“Should be able to get someone out 'ere within the hour. Maybe two or three hours tops before he’s changed out the hoses.” </p><p>It certainly wasn’t this old chaps fault the generator was out and the power was down. But a twinge of annoyance flexed through my veins nevertheless. So many things, unforeseeable and unplanned could spontaneously go array in the hotel business. It was a constant battle, dealing with those thousands of scenarios that weren't <em>ifs but whens</em>, and I stood, crossing my arms in frustration. </p><p>“Get on it, then. Let’s start making calls,” I barked in Marianna’s direction. “If we’re facing three hours without power potentially, what can be done about the guests? Are phones working? Will be a bloody mess if we’ve got to go door to door to check-in. I guess we could man someone to every floor, keep them from hopping on the elevators. Or are those out too?”</p><p>“Elevators are offline but some guests have wandered down the stairs to the lobby. Most, if not all the rooms have landlines, and thankfully those are working. Good thing we haven’t switched over to a wireless network yet. And we’ve been receiving an influx of calls. People requesting additional blankets, coffee, and the like - although I can’t imagine temperatures have begun to drop. I believe at this point people may be slightly overreacting.”</p><p>“I see. Well, I’ll leave you to handle getting a repairman down here. Whatever it takes, do it. If we have to pay triple to get someone out of bed you've card blanche. I’ll head up to the Lobby and see what can be done for these poor, abused guests in search of teas and blankets. It's rather funny they're overreacting so much. Like they're throwing on life preservers on the Titanic." </p><p>“You know we really do have it under control, Mr. Hiddleston. You can return to your suite and get some sleep. We're fully equipped to deal with fussy guests.” Her lips curled into a smirk in the dim red darkness of the room, and I rolled my eyes dramatically. </p><p>“You know the saying, Marianna. This is <em> all hands on deck</em>. And the Captain always goes down with the ship.”</p>
<hr/><p>The Lobby was unusually quiet without the whirring of heaters and soft piano music that usually wafted along the marble walls. All I heard were the clicks of heels, as three bellmen moved restlessly near the gilded entryway, like linebackers on the ready to tackle anyone who dared come through the swinging doors. I swiped a walkie-talkie for myself from the reception desk as a few of the check-in girls were sparking tea-light candles in various corners, bathing the room in an eerie flickering glow. An alarming number of guests had migrated downstairs as well, asking impatiently for updates and hovering in clumps near a french press that had materialized out of the back kitchens. Since the stoves were all gas, at least we had hot water for coffee, I observed, and I moved to pour myself a steaming cup.</p><p>“Can I get one of those too please?” a familiar voice shot towards me. I turned to see Tessa, all zipped up again in her puffer coat with her hair piled wildly on her head in an attempt at a bun.</p><p>“I'm certain I told you to stay upstairs?” I’d tried to fane anger, but I was keenly aware the hint of a smirk gave away my excitement she’d come down. We’d been apart less than a half-hour, but the longing, well, it was as strong as when I’d last seen her sprawled out on my bed. The realization that her hair looked an absolute fright was entirely my doing sent a pang of desire searing through my core.</p><p>“It was so dark. And a little creepy to be honest. I thought I’d head down and see if anything exciting was going on down here.”</p><p>“Face painting begins in ten minutes, and the pony rides in a half hour. But you’re just in time for the jugglers - they’re setting up in the bar.”</p><p>She gave me a heavy eye roll and accepted the cup of coffee as I handed it to her. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”</p><p>“Nothing exciting in the slightest, as you can see. Although it may be some time until the generator is back up and running. I’d suggest you go back upstairs and try to get some sleep. I’ll be occupied for a few hours at least.”</p><p>“Is there anything I can help with? I’d prefer to make myself useful if I can instead of being cooped up in the dark.”</p><p>“Most kind of you to offer, but I can assure you, everything is under control.”</p><p>Just then and as if on cue, the walkie-talkie on my belt lit up like Christmas before Mariana’s voice came through in a garbled crackle, “Not enough staff for requests of hot beverages and additional blankets...Over...if anyone is available to run items to rooms please report to me in the kitchens...Out.”</p><p>“Yeah, really sounds like everything is under control,” she huffed. Crossing her arms and shooting me a look that seemed to read “I told you so”. I felt a strong urge to give her attitude an adjustment with my mouth. </p><p>“Very well.” I stepped towards her, resisting another urge to wrap my arms around her short frame and pull her towards me. She was small, and her head barely reached the first button of my dress shirt. “If you’d like to assist Marianna by running things up to guests, I’ll allow it.”</p><p>It didn’t seem like I could stop her if I tried.</p>
<hr/><p>“That Ms. Taylor,” Marianna paused, choosing her words carefully as she fought back a smile. “She’s rather plucky, isn’t she? I can’t tell if she’s a guest or an employee. We might need to add her to the payroll if she keeps this up.”</p><p>Tessa had been busy helping housekeeping for hours, delivering blankets or beverages to rooms, and as things had finally settled down, she’d returned to the Lobby. Taking it upon herself to run the coffee carafes all on her own.</p><p>I settled my eyes on Tessa. Watching as she chatted with a middle-aged woman in a ridiculous fur-trimmed poncho and handed her a steaming takeaway cup filled to the brim. She was so natural with strangers, a quality I’d never been able to perfect. Not that I’d really wanted to. Some called my demeanor cold, which as a man wasn’t so much an insult as a compliment. Better to be stern and stoic than soft, my father had always said and I'd adopted that mantra as well. But Tessa exuded something entirely different in these small interactions. She was genuinely warm.</p><p>“Plucky is one way to put it,” I mumbled in response. To the onlooker, she looked every bit as cheerful as an American Girl Scout. “Ms. Taylor will be working for the company. Not for corporate, but her textile firm will be handling contract work for us moving forward. She’ll be designing linens, draperies and whatnot.”</p><p>“Ah, well that explains it. She’s trying to make a good impression for the boss.” Marianna tucked her walkie-talkie in her waistband and slipped towards the grouping of Bellman. “It’s all making sense to me now.”</p><p>I bit my lip, as my gaze shifted back to Tessa at her little coffee station. I didn’t entirely agree with Marianna’s assessment. Although I’d barely gotten to know Tessa, I had the distinct impression this was the sort of thing Tessa would have done regardless of whether or not the boss was there. She wasn’t a sycophant – certainly not a brown noser. No, Tessa had a sincere interest in people and their wellbeing. She’d have been jumping into action, making herself useful regardless of my presence. And the realization made me want her even more.</p><p>Lights flickered for a fleeting moment. The whole of the lobby collectively held their breath in silent anticipation hoping power had returned. The buzz of the heaters kicked on, churning and whirring and I let out a cautious exhale as the room was finally bathed again in brightness. After so many hours in the dark, I had to blink, adjusting to the recessed lights and chandeliers that now seemed almost as blinding as the surface of the sun.</p><p>“Looks like the generator is back online,” Marianna said as she propped her hands on her slim hips and moved my direction. “I’ll take over from here Mr. Hiddleston.” She tilted her head coyly and motioned towards a smudge of pink along the edge of my collar that had gone unnoticed in the darkness. “Time for you to return to your…previous engagements.”</p><p>“Bloody hell,” I mumbled as I tried in vain to rub the stain out, but Tessa’s lipstick was as indelible as permanent marker. No way to explain it as something other than what it was, so I redirected, “Well, great work handling things tonight. You did an excellent job on this mess and I’ll leave you to it.”</p><p>I turned quickly on my heels, desperate to end that little interaction. I’d been caught. Not that I’d been trying too terribly hard to conceal things with Tessa, but I’d royally boggled up matters. And after what Marianna had picked up on there would be no getting that genie back into the bottle. I was moving quickly, fumbling with my shirt in an attempt to hide the stain from the rest of the room as I made my way towards Tessa. She was occupied, wiping with a dishrag where some hot water had spilled on the glossy tabletop. It was comical, really, and I fought the urge to laugh as I imagined Vivian cleaning up at one of my hotels. No, Tessa was an entirely different breed of woman – capable, uninhibited, oblivious to the judgment of others, and without a vain bone in her body. </p><p>There was no use leaving separately I decided, as I reached her and she accepted the crook of my arm to head back to the suite. Gossip seemed to spread like wildfire amongst dry savannah grasses at my hotels. The entire staff would know without the half-hour something was going on between us now that Marianna was clued in. No use hiding it now.</p>
<hr/><p>“Well, did you enjoy your stint working for the Royal H? I wonder if I should start you on payroll after tonight’s escapades.” I slipped the key into the heavy door and pulled Tessa inside. The suite was warmer from just a few minutes of restored heat, and I tossed my jacket over the back of the sectional in need of it no more.</p><p>“Is it weird that I kind of had fun?" She let her hair cascade down from the top of her head, untwisting a rubber tie that had managed to hold the messy pile of it in place. "It was great people watching – getting to see these bougie guests all wrapped up in robes and blankets like they are in the middle of a nuclear fallout. This one lady had the tiniest dog I’ve ever seen tucked in the pocket of her coat when she came to the door and the dog had on its own tiny coat, too. Oh, and another guy asked if I had any Port and Cuban cigars on me, and I had to tell him I was fresh out. I’d hate to see if these people ever experience an actual crisis...they were all such big babies! But, helping out sure beat sitting up here by myself after you ran off and left me naked and all alone in the dark.”</p><p> “That’s not fair, Tessa. I can assure you the last thing I wanted was to leave you in such a state. I hope you’re not too exhausted, and we can pick up just where we left off.”</p><p>I let my eyes trail over her as she unzipped herself from the coat. She’d thrown on only a thin pair of black leggings and an army green camisole that looked a few sizes too small. She spilled out of it, leaving little to my imagination as my gaze honed in on an abundance of cleavage she’d been concealing from everyone down in the Lobby. I was made suddenly aware of two things. I needed to buy the girl a proper jacket. One that showed off her figure and didn’t leave her looking as shapely as a black rubbish bag. And I wanted her out of that constricting camisole as quickly as possible.</p><p>“I’d like to pick up where we left off too. But…” she trailed off, biting her lip in a timid gesture as her green eyes caught mine. My breath hitched, sensing a sudden shift in tone. She had something rather serious to disclose.</p><p>“I don’t want to sound like some prude. I mean, we’re both adults and well beyond that point especially after everything that happened before the power went out. And I get it, sex isn’t a big deal...or it shouldn’t be. I’ve certainly had a lot of boyfriends, and I’m sure that you’ve been with the lion's share of girls. Not that I care at all or that bothers me. I just I usually get to know someone first and…”</p><p>The girl was struggling, floundering to get the words out, but I picked up on enough of her context clues to get the general idea of where she was headed, however winding the trail might have been.</p><p>“And, does this mean you’d like to hold off on actually <em>sleeping </em>together? In the biblical sense?”</p><p>She nodded emphatically, biting that perfect lip and it was all I could do not to cross the carpet and push her down into the sectional. I wanted to take that lower lip between mine, trace my tongue against her mouth that was swollen and chapped from our hours I’d spent kissing her before. I felt certain I could persuade her, coax her through this bout of nerves and modest thoughts. I’d run my hands on every supple bend and curve. I'd turn my lips to each of her nipples, letting them harden against the brushes of my tongue. I'd leave her gasping, burning with need until she was practically begging for me to slip my length between her soft folds.</p><p>“Believe it or not I think that’s a brilliant plan. I was actually going to suggest taking things slowly myself,” I lied.</p><p>But if Tessa was intent on waiting, what harm could that cause? Sure, some sexual frustration for me, but nothing else. And the more I mulled over the proposition, the more sound it seemed. Was this something I wanted to rush into? She was right in her assessment - I'd had the lion’s share of women, most of whom I’d slept with the first day I’d met them, and those affairs had fizzled within weeks, sometimes days. I wasn’t game for the same to happen to Tessa. Maybe holding off on actually having sex, although I’d never waited for a woman, was what I wanted too.</p><p>“Come along. It’s nearly three in the morning and I’m sure you’re as knackered as I am. Let’s get into bed and we can discuss things further tomorrow.”</p><p>I extended my hand and she took it, following wordlessly to the bedroom and wriggling under the covers as I unbuttoned my shirt and undressed. I was suddenly unsure if it was acceptable for me to be sleeping in boxer briefs under this new arrangement. Maybe I should throw on joggers to be safe? But her small hand pulling me to her as I turned off the lamp told me I was fine as I was, and I slipped into the crisp cotton of the king-size sheets.</p><p>Tessa curled in, curving her tiny frame against mine, and although I was a good foot and a half taller, we fit together like two spoons in a drawer. Her knees curled where mine bent, her backside jutted against my cock, and her hair draped over her shoulder, smelling of something sweet and citrus I recognized instantly as the shampoo from the hotel. I breathed in deeply, nuzzling my face into the softness of her neck as I let the tips of my fingers slide down her shoulder delicately, to her tapering waist, and a little patch of skin on her stomach left exposed between her top and leggings. I slipped my fingers there below her camisole, soaking in the warmth of her skin before my lids closed tight. </p><p>Bloody hell, the girl had done an absolute number on me, and she didn’t even realize it yet.</p>
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